Alan met me outside Trauma Two. His face was pale. Not tired. Not professional. Pale.

“Where’s Emily?”

He placed one hand on the curtain. That hand had repaired ruptured arteries. That hand had clamped bleeders, held retractors, stayed still through operations that left the rest of us wrung dry.

It trembled for half a second.

“She’s sedated.”

“Was she conscious?”