![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
GWOT 2 - Trauma
Jun. 14th, 2020 10:15 pmGWOT 2 - Trauma
[If you read the GWOT series, you know this can be graphic and brutal. This story is especially savage and has unexpected twists. Apparently trigger warnings can reinforce undesirable self identifications. If this story doesn't deeply disturb you or piss you off or both, I have failed.]
Since the successful evacuation of the H1Bs and the unauthorized persons from the former perimeter camp, now bulldozed, we have had an extremely strict *no immigrants* policy.
This is for our protection. Not just from contagious disease and lack of food, both of which have been issues, but from Homeland. They can't do sweeps if there is no one new to sweep for. Just one unauthorized person and Homeland can come in, identify everyone, then ... wait for it ... sidewalk anyone they don't like.
The recent suicide has shaken us all. I will not identify the guard, even by gender let alone name, because their decision to leave us in this way means I refuse to waste any further time or effort on them. It is all the people they left behind that we have to worry about.
The technical term is suicide cluster. And we've had to roll on three officially recognized self harm events in the last twenty-four hours. And seven less formal such events.
We have one clinical psychologist. One. And she is herself at high risk for suicide. Not unlike, oh, our fucking Site Location Executive! And our VP of HR! And half my guard supervisors! And oh yeah. Also me.
Keeping that secret is a high priority.
When we have an official self harm response, we take into custody (minimal force, no shields or long sticks), transport to Medical (our grandly named infirmary) for an evaluation, then put them in the "Box" (kindest term we could think of for what is basically a psych cell) until they can be evaluated by Betty the psych(otic?), our VP-HR, or due to the most recent surge of drama, me.
A page goes out as the PA system lights up.
"Shots fired, weapons emergency. The Reaction Team will respond to G as in Golf building 2nd floor..."
Inside. We don't need to be attacked from outside, we're doing ourselves quite nicely.
I start running. The employee Reaction Team is not exactly the right tool for this job. The corporate militia is now authorized to unlock and load their rifles and respond in pairs or greater to the threat.
Of course, they now have access to loaded weapons they don't have before and after the emergency.
When I arrive, the scene is quite clear.
This is not the first firearm suicide I've responded to.
Today.
But it is not quite a successful suicide yet. Patient is conscious and kind of breathing.
Sort of.
We don't really have medics. We've cross trained all guards in first aid, and some at emergency medical care, but they are guards doing guard stuff.
We have stretcher bearers. But their training in managing complex trauma is basically open the airway, patch the hole(s) and carry the person to Medical, or the large number of people to the casualty clearing station thoughtfully provided in every other building.
We have now had four mass casualty events on site. Those stations have paid for themselves many times over.
I see that Patty is there.
"Take Command," I ruthlessly order, and with great joy in my heart demote myself to medic.
There is no one else who could possibly save this person.
I need the practice.
And it may all be an illusion, but it's something concrete I can _do_. With my two hands. Other than hurt or shoot people.
###
My patient, a female in her thirties, has a through and through gunshot wound to the face. As is common in gunshot suicide attempts, she put the barrel of the pistol under her chin, intending to blow her brains out. Because she flinched when pulling the trigger, or hesitated at the last second, the bullet entered her mouth under her chin, breaking her jaw in passing, went through the sinus cavity, and went out the top of her nose, taking her face with it.
Her brain is still intact. And she is conscious.
One of my guards, with great presence of mind, has already braced his hands under her former chin and lifted her head up enough to open her airway. To hell with C-spine, no airway no patient.
He did not have time to put on gloves. So he's as bloody all over as I'm about to be.
There is no way to place a basic airway. A nasal airway assumes you have a nose. An oral airway goes over the tongue, which is now a mass of blown out meat.
I am not trained to place an advanced airway. So I am, once again, breaking the law at the felony level.
Every damn day.
So I rip open the AIRWAY bag brought by the first Fire Brigade member on scene, pull out the King tube, and seat it down what is left of her throat.
The Fire Brigade member assists, hooking up the oxygen and verifying tube placement. We are working seamlessly, as we do our primary assessment, then use bulky bandages to control the facial and neck bleeding. She missed the carotids and the larynx, or we wouldn't bother.
I do the secondary assessment, head to toe, very fast. Patient is conscious and would be screaming if it weren't for the tube. Probably has vocal cord damage, oh well too bad. A stretcher bearer team slides a backboard under her on three, we strap her to the board and - we have very much learned the hard way - zip tie her wrists to the board as well.
We barely have time to put the oxygen cylinder between her legs before the stretcher bearers are lifting and carrying, down to the converted golf cart. Someone has held the elevator, someone else is holding the front doors.
We don't let sick or hurt people linger. This is a working office and these people need to get back to work. Code wins wars, don't you know, and productivity is going to be shot today.
So to speak.
We arrive at Infirmary. We have two trauma rooms. Trauma 1 is busy, so we are diverted to Trauma 2.
I've already mentally composed my passdown.
Female in her thirties, self inflicted GSW to the face, unstable airway ...
And I'm not going to get to give it.
I strip my gloves off - no time to wash hands - and check my firearm, ready to draw instantly. Key up my microphone.
"The Reaction Team will respond to Infirmary," I command immediately.
I hear but don't waste time listening to the acknowledgement The infirmary guard is already headed towards me, with his shotgun in his hands.
There was no medical page. Why is there someone being worked up in Trauma One?
The doctor sticks her head out, sees that we have a badly broken casualty, and moves to Trauma Two. I go into Trauma One and the infirmary guard follows.
Janine is there, and another one of her Fire Brigade medics. And there is a patient on the table.
"Get out," the Fire Brigade Captain says to me. Then she sees that I have the pistol in my hand, and it is pointed at her torso.
The infirmary guard levels his shotgun at the fire medic, who immediately raises his hands.
"Who the fuck is that?" I demand, of Janine whom I am pointing a gun at (!), not able to get much of an impression other than a small person hurting on a big table.
Running feet echo in the hallway.
"A patient," she snaps.
"No. No, Janine. No more strays. The presence of this one person here endangers over two thousand lives. You will tell me now exactly who this is, and how she got in here, or I will relieve you and place you under physical arrest."
Her hand starts to move. My eyes narrow.
Mozambique drill. Two to the chest, one to the head.
"Don't..." I breathe and prepare to fire on the outward breath.
She freezes. Then very slowly, very slowly, puts both her hands on the patient's lower right leg.
Reaction Team is here. The infirmary guard is away from his post. That means they will sweep and clear everything.
React bangs on the door. Janine starts to say something.
"NOT CLEAR" I boom at the top of my lungs, overriding her.
Twenty seconds later, the patient has been secured to the trauma table by wrists and ankles with zip ties. Janine and the medic have been body searched. And on the examination tray table, now pushed to the corner of the room, there is a small concealable revolver, of the type once known as a Fifth Ace, which REACT found in my Fire Brigade Captain's front groin area.
All our searches are thorough. People have died, including one in this very room, from bad searches.
"Thank you, I will take over from here. Guard, put this firearm in the infirmary weapons check, fully documented. I need a contract security supervisor. No one will speak until they arrive."
When one does, Arturo thank God, I order the room cleared.
Two security folks, both armed. Two fire folks, both unarmed. React supplementing the augmented guard on the doors. And we have privacy.
"Last chance to keep your job, Janine. Explain or be expelled from Site."
And if it's the last thing I do, I will have no choice but to arrange her death. She just knows too damn much. Not just as Fire Brigade Captain, but as a member of the Ammunition Technical Working Group.
Goddamn it, Janine, how could you do this to us all?
Our eyes meet. I am already figuring out how to dispose of that short, stacked, muscular and heavily tattooed body.
Oh thank God.
Her voice is clipped, clinical.
"We were doing a hose lay drill. We found him wandering, bleeding, in severe lower abdominal pain. We brought him in the engine."
New rule Fire equipment to be hard searched inbound with soul count and ID check. No more driving past with a wave and a reconciliation with the fire duty roster.
There is a person in agony secured to the table in front of us. I put up a hand and do a primary assessment, which takes about fifteen seconds.
Airway patent and clear. Breath volume and rate adequate. No obvious signs of external bleeding. Capillary refill check under 2 seconds.
"Searched?"
"Yes, we're not idiots."
I had my doubts.
Then I had my doubts.
"Arturo, take security." I holstered so he drew.
I moved to the patient's head.
They were grayed out. Conscious, vaguely aware that something was going on, with guns, but in too much pain to really care.
I immediately cut the leg ties and they brought their legs up to their abdomen. Slightly apart.
I turned to the sink, rinsed my hands of blood. Didn't bother with gloves. Lifted the shirt.
Stopped. Pulled it back down.
I went to the intercom, then reconsidered and picked up the phone. This was not a page I wanted in the air.
"Security control? I need the VP of HR and the midwife, in Trauma One, right fucking now. By escort. MOVE."
I pushed past Janine to the patient's side.
"My name is Echo and I'm a medical technician," I said as calmly and soothingly as I knew how. I also left off the word emergency.
"What's your name?" I had to repeat the demand, three times, louder each time, still trying to be firm but friendly about it.
"Sean," the patient said.
"Sean, how old are you?"
"It hurts. It really hurts."
"We will help you. I can give you something for the pain. But I need to know how old you are?"
"Fourteen."
"Copy fourteen. Are you taking any drugs, do you drink alcohol?"
No and no. These were for the wealthy now.
"When was your last period?"
Even with hands zip tied to the bed, the patient flinched.
Janine started to step forward and Arturo barked "No" with pistol in hand.
"I don't know. A long time ago."
The doctor, the midwife and the VP HR all came in at the same time.
"Passdown," the doctor ordered crisply.
"Fourteen years old, female at birth, name is SH-AWN, presented in compensated shock with severe abdominal pain. Pregnant at least twenty weeks. Likely complications, likely trauma. Patient is under arrest for unauthorized entry and will remain in custody in Infirmary."
The doctor blinked exactly once and took over.
"Fire get out. Change to medical restraints. Give me oxygen at 2 via nasal and a set of baseline vitals. Hi, Shawn, my name is Anna and I'm a doctor. We're going to take care of you and we're not going to hurt you. Can you tell me where it hurts? Is the pain pulsing? How often?"
###
Arturo, Janine and I took over the doctor's conference room. The one we use for death notifications and medical bad news.
The fire medic was escorted by a guard to Security Control, where he would wait for word as to whether his boss was his boss or a prisoner, and meanwhile talk to nobody about anything.
The VP-HR stayed with the patient. She had taken it all in at a glance. This was major misconduct, but it was all major contractor misconduct.
"What the hell were you thinking?"
Janine was in shock.
"I didn't know she was a she. He gave h..er name as Shawn."
I followed up.
"I don't believe for an instant that she wandered into the outer perimeter. That can be the story for now. But you will tell me exactly how she got in the perimeter. In a few minutes.
"What I want to know first is even more serious. Who is she? Where did she come from? Who is looking for her? Homeland? The Mormons?"
Maybe I wasn't being fair to LDS. But I had to make it sound a little less treasonous. Because if she was on the run from Homeland the kindest, safest thing to do would be to sidewalk her ourselves before anyone found out.
Like everyone believed I had done to Mr. Stone.
"Is there surveillance in this room?"
Funny that Janine asked, Because in the Working Group she's our tech person, and would be the designated sweeper.
"We have none."
"She got away from the Colonel."
Dirty Mercs.
We had unfinished business with them.
I stood.
"Arturo, get the details of how to patch the hole in our perimeter. Log Shawn as an informant in the security group, entry retroactively authorized by me, this date."
Janine was shocked again.
"The next time you blindside me with something that endangers the site, you'd better kill me first," I warned.
And went back to Trauma One.
###
The midwife had taken over, the doctor gave me the passdown. She spoke softly from habit but the patient was beyond caring despite what little pain medication we could provide.
"We're going to do ultrasound shortly. But it looks like a breech baby on top of repeated abdominal trauma. And rectal."
I nodded. "Keep patient in custody for now, don't share this but she's an agent."
Not quite a lie, she just didn't know it yet.
###
I spent most of the day in Infirmary. The severe abdominal pain was labor.
The midwife was trying to turn the baby.
If she failed, Shawn would die.
The doctor was reading up on how to do a C section, but she was a veterinary surgeon, not a human surgeon, and didn't really want to try it.
But... if she had to, she would.
###
The delivery was difficult and prolonged.
The midwife had suctioned the nose and mouth when the head was delivered, but the end product was blue and limp.
That happens with babies. It looked unhealthy, but babies do that, and plenty of people who started their first minute of life with a crappy Apgar score are walking around today.
The midwife started to flick the feet.
Then she stopped herself.
I looked. The doctor looked.
The three of us nodded to each other. And thereby completed all the necessary elements for conspiracy to commit murder in the first degree.
No further action was taken.
The time of birth was noted.
As was the time of death.
###
The doctor told Shawn.
"Is it dead? Is it really dead? You're not just telling me that?"
A pause.
"Oh Thank God."
[If you read the GWOT series, you know this can be graphic and brutal. This story is especially savage and has unexpected twists. Apparently trigger warnings can reinforce undesirable self identifications. If this story doesn't deeply disturb you or piss you off or both, I have failed.]
Since the successful evacuation of the H1Bs and the unauthorized persons from the former perimeter camp, now bulldozed, we have had an extremely strict *no immigrants* policy.
This is for our protection. Not just from contagious disease and lack of food, both of which have been issues, but from Homeland. They can't do sweeps if there is no one new to sweep for. Just one unauthorized person and Homeland can come in, identify everyone, then ... wait for it ... sidewalk anyone they don't like.
The recent suicide has shaken us all. I will not identify the guard, even by gender let alone name, because their decision to leave us in this way means I refuse to waste any further time or effort on them. It is all the people they left behind that we have to worry about.
The technical term is suicide cluster. And we've had to roll on three officially recognized self harm events in the last twenty-four hours. And seven less formal such events.
We have one clinical psychologist. One. And she is herself at high risk for suicide. Not unlike, oh, our fucking Site Location Executive! And our VP of HR! And half my guard supervisors! And oh yeah. Also me.
Keeping that secret is a high priority.
When we have an official self harm response, we take into custody (minimal force, no shields or long sticks), transport to Medical (our grandly named infirmary) for an evaluation, then put them in the "Box" (kindest term we could think of for what is basically a psych cell) until they can be evaluated by Betty the psych(otic?), our VP-HR, or due to the most recent surge of drama, me.
A page goes out as the PA system lights up.
"Shots fired, weapons emergency. The Reaction Team will respond to G as in Golf building 2nd floor..."
Inside. We don't need to be attacked from outside, we're doing ourselves quite nicely.
I start running. The employee Reaction Team is not exactly the right tool for this job. The corporate militia is now authorized to unlock and load their rifles and respond in pairs or greater to the threat.
Of course, they now have access to loaded weapons they don't have before and after the emergency.
When I arrive, the scene is quite clear.
This is not the first firearm suicide I've responded to.
Today.
But it is not quite a successful suicide yet. Patient is conscious and kind of breathing.
Sort of.
We don't really have medics. We've cross trained all guards in first aid, and some at emergency medical care, but they are guards doing guard stuff.
We have stretcher bearers. But their training in managing complex trauma is basically open the airway, patch the hole(s) and carry the person to Medical, or the large number of people to the casualty clearing station thoughtfully provided in every other building.
We have now had four mass casualty events on site. Those stations have paid for themselves many times over.
I see that Patty is there.
"Take Command," I ruthlessly order, and with great joy in my heart demote myself to medic.
There is no one else who could possibly save this person.
I need the practice.
And it may all be an illusion, but it's something concrete I can _do_. With my two hands. Other than hurt or shoot people.
###
My patient, a female in her thirties, has a through and through gunshot wound to the face. As is common in gunshot suicide attempts, she put the barrel of the pistol under her chin, intending to blow her brains out. Because she flinched when pulling the trigger, or hesitated at the last second, the bullet entered her mouth under her chin, breaking her jaw in passing, went through the sinus cavity, and went out the top of her nose, taking her face with it.
Her brain is still intact. And she is conscious.
One of my guards, with great presence of mind, has already braced his hands under her former chin and lifted her head up enough to open her airway. To hell with C-spine, no airway no patient.
He did not have time to put on gloves. So he's as bloody all over as I'm about to be.
There is no way to place a basic airway. A nasal airway assumes you have a nose. An oral airway goes over the tongue, which is now a mass of blown out meat.
I am not trained to place an advanced airway. So I am, once again, breaking the law at the felony level.
Every damn day.
So I rip open the AIRWAY bag brought by the first Fire Brigade member on scene, pull out the King tube, and seat it down what is left of her throat.
The Fire Brigade member assists, hooking up the oxygen and verifying tube placement. We are working seamlessly, as we do our primary assessment, then use bulky bandages to control the facial and neck bleeding. She missed the carotids and the larynx, or we wouldn't bother.
I do the secondary assessment, head to toe, very fast. Patient is conscious and would be screaming if it weren't for the tube. Probably has vocal cord damage, oh well too bad. A stretcher bearer team slides a backboard under her on three, we strap her to the board and - we have very much learned the hard way - zip tie her wrists to the board as well.
We barely have time to put the oxygen cylinder between her legs before the stretcher bearers are lifting and carrying, down to the converted golf cart. Someone has held the elevator, someone else is holding the front doors.
We don't let sick or hurt people linger. This is a working office and these people need to get back to work. Code wins wars, don't you know, and productivity is going to be shot today.
So to speak.
We arrive at Infirmary. We have two trauma rooms. Trauma 1 is busy, so we are diverted to Trauma 2.
I've already mentally composed my passdown.
Female in her thirties, self inflicted GSW to the face, unstable airway ...
And I'm not going to get to give it.
I strip my gloves off - no time to wash hands - and check my firearm, ready to draw instantly. Key up my microphone.
"The Reaction Team will respond to Infirmary," I command immediately.
I hear but don't waste time listening to the acknowledgement The infirmary guard is already headed towards me, with his shotgun in his hands.
There was no medical page. Why is there someone being worked up in Trauma One?
The doctor sticks her head out, sees that we have a badly broken casualty, and moves to Trauma Two. I go into Trauma One and the infirmary guard follows.
Janine is there, and another one of her Fire Brigade medics. And there is a patient on the table.
"Get out," the Fire Brigade Captain says to me. Then she sees that I have the pistol in my hand, and it is pointed at her torso.
The infirmary guard levels his shotgun at the fire medic, who immediately raises his hands.
"Who the fuck is that?" I demand, of Janine whom I am pointing a gun at (!), not able to get much of an impression other than a small person hurting on a big table.
Running feet echo in the hallway.
"A patient," she snaps.
"No. No, Janine. No more strays. The presence of this one person here endangers over two thousand lives. You will tell me now exactly who this is, and how she got in here, or I will relieve you and place you under physical arrest."
Her hand starts to move. My eyes narrow.
Mozambique drill. Two to the chest, one to the head.
"Don't..." I breathe and prepare to fire on the outward breath.
She freezes. Then very slowly, very slowly, puts both her hands on the patient's lower right leg.
Reaction Team is here. The infirmary guard is away from his post. That means they will sweep and clear everything.
React bangs on the door. Janine starts to say something.
"NOT CLEAR" I boom at the top of my lungs, overriding her.
Twenty seconds later, the patient has been secured to the trauma table by wrists and ankles with zip ties. Janine and the medic have been body searched. And on the examination tray table, now pushed to the corner of the room, there is a small concealable revolver, of the type once known as a Fifth Ace, which REACT found in my Fire Brigade Captain's front groin area.
All our searches are thorough. People have died, including one in this very room, from bad searches.
"Thank you, I will take over from here. Guard, put this firearm in the infirmary weapons check, fully documented. I need a contract security supervisor. No one will speak until they arrive."
When one does, Arturo thank God, I order the room cleared.
Two security folks, both armed. Two fire folks, both unarmed. React supplementing the augmented guard on the doors. And we have privacy.
"Last chance to keep your job, Janine. Explain or be expelled from Site."
And if it's the last thing I do, I will have no choice but to arrange her death. She just knows too damn much. Not just as Fire Brigade Captain, but as a member of the Ammunition Technical Working Group.
Goddamn it, Janine, how could you do this to us all?
Our eyes meet. I am already figuring out how to dispose of that short, stacked, muscular and heavily tattooed body.
Oh thank God.
Her voice is clipped, clinical.
"We were doing a hose lay drill. We found him wandering, bleeding, in severe lower abdominal pain. We brought him in the engine."
New rule Fire equipment to be hard searched inbound with soul count and ID check. No more driving past with a wave and a reconciliation with the fire duty roster.
There is a person in agony secured to the table in front of us. I put up a hand and do a primary assessment, which takes about fifteen seconds.
Airway patent and clear. Breath volume and rate adequate. No obvious signs of external bleeding. Capillary refill check under 2 seconds.
"Searched?"
"Yes, we're not idiots."
I had my doubts.
Then I had my doubts.
"Arturo, take security." I holstered so he drew.
I moved to the patient's head.
They were grayed out. Conscious, vaguely aware that something was going on, with guns, but in too much pain to really care.
I immediately cut the leg ties and they brought their legs up to their abdomen. Slightly apart.
I turned to the sink, rinsed my hands of blood. Didn't bother with gloves. Lifted the shirt.
Stopped. Pulled it back down.
I went to the intercom, then reconsidered and picked up the phone. This was not a page I wanted in the air.
"Security control? I need the VP of HR and the midwife, in Trauma One, right fucking now. By escort. MOVE."
I pushed past Janine to the patient's side.
"My name is Echo and I'm a medical technician," I said as calmly and soothingly as I knew how. I also left off the word emergency.
"What's your name?" I had to repeat the demand, three times, louder each time, still trying to be firm but friendly about it.
"Sean," the patient said.
"Sean, how old are you?"
"It hurts. It really hurts."
"We will help you. I can give you something for the pain. But I need to know how old you are?"
"Fourteen."
"Copy fourteen. Are you taking any drugs, do you drink alcohol?"
No and no. These were for the wealthy now.
"When was your last period?"
Even with hands zip tied to the bed, the patient flinched.
Janine started to step forward and Arturo barked "No" with pistol in hand.
"I don't know. A long time ago."
The doctor, the midwife and the VP HR all came in at the same time.
"Passdown," the doctor ordered crisply.
"Fourteen years old, female at birth, name is SH-AWN, presented in compensated shock with severe abdominal pain. Pregnant at least twenty weeks. Likely complications, likely trauma. Patient is under arrest for unauthorized entry and will remain in custody in Infirmary."
The doctor blinked exactly once and took over.
"Fire get out. Change to medical restraints. Give me oxygen at 2 via nasal and a set of baseline vitals. Hi, Shawn, my name is Anna and I'm a doctor. We're going to take care of you and we're not going to hurt you. Can you tell me where it hurts? Is the pain pulsing? How often?"
###
Arturo, Janine and I took over the doctor's conference room. The one we use for death notifications and medical bad news.
The fire medic was escorted by a guard to Security Control, where he would wait for word as to whether his boss was his boss or a prisoner, and meanwhile talk to nobody about anything.
The VP-HR stayed with the patient. She had taken it all in at a glance. This was major misconduct, but it was all major contractor misconduct.
"What the hell were you thinking?"
Janine was in shock.
"I didn't know she was a she. He gave h..er name as Shawn."
I followed up.
"I don't believe for an instant that she wandered into the outer perimeter. That can be the story for now. But you will tell me exactly how she got in the perimeter. In a few minutes.
"What I want to know first is even more serious. Who is she? Where did she come from? Who is looking for her? Homeland? The Mormons?"
Maybe I wasn't being fair to LDS. But I had to make it sound a little less treasonous. Because if she was on the run from Homeland the kindest, safest thing to do would be to sidewalk her ourselves before anyone found out.
Like everyone believed I had done to Mr. Stone.
"Is there surveillance in this room?"
Funny that Janine asked, Because in the Working Group she's our tech person, and would be the designated sweeper.
"We have none."
"She got away from the Colonel."
Dirty Mercs.
We had unfinished business with them.
I stood.
"Arturo, get the details of how to patch the hole in our perimeter. Log Shawn as an informant in the security group, entry retroactively authorized by me, this date."
Janine was shocked again.
"The next time you blindside me with something that endangers the site, you'd better kill me first," I warned.
And went back to Trauma One.
###
The midwife had taken over, the doctor gave me the passdown. She spoke softly from habit but the patient was beyond caring despite what little pain medication we could provide.
"We're going to do ultrasound shortly. But it looks like a breech baby on top of repeated abdominal trauma. And rectal."
I nodded. "Keep patient in custody for now, don't share this but she's an agent."
Not quite a lie, she just didn't know it yet.
###
I spent most of the day in Infirmary. The severe abdominal pain was labor.
The midwife was trying to turn the baby.
If she failed, Shawn would die.
The doctor was reading up on how to do a C section, but she was a veterinary surgeon, not a human surgeon, and didn't really want to try it.
But... if she had to, she would.
###
The delivery was difficult and prolonged.
The midwife had suctioned the nose and mouth when the head was delivered, but the end product was blue and limp.
That happens with babies. It looked unhealthy, but babies do that, and plenty of people who started their first minute of life with a crappy Apgar score are walking around today.
The midwife started to flick the feet.
Then she stopped herself.
I looked. The doctor looked.
The three of us nodded to each other. And thereby completed all the necessary elements for conspiracy to commit murder in the first degree.
No further action was taken.
The time of birth was noted.
As was the time of death.
###
The doctor told Shawn.
"Is it dead? Is it really dead? You're not just telling me that?"
A pause.
"Oh Thank God."
