Fluorescent light hums against the quiet of the trauma bay. It is 3:40 AM, the dead hour where the hospital smells of industrial lemon and stale coffee. Hollis Reeve taps her pen against the laminate of the triage desk, the rhythm steady as a heartbeat. Outside, the Montana winter screams against the glass, piling snow in drifts that bury the county line. She is safe here, thirteen years deep into a life built on silence and sterile gauze.
She adjusts the thin silver chain at her throat, the metal cold against her olive skin. Her jaw aches, a phantom twitch in the old scar where a different life once tried to claim her. The emergency monitors pulse green, rhythmic and indifferent. Everything is under control. She has scrubbed the scent of the pack from her skin so thoroughly that even the mirrors seem to forget who she used to be.
A sudden vibration rattles the heavy glass. The night shift’s peace fractures as heavy boots pound against the concrete ramp outside, too fast for a gurney, too heavy for a civilian. Hollis stands, her stethoscope cold against her chest. The ambulance bay doors slide violently open, a blast of winter air hitting the desk.
