Descent

Doctor Sloane to the ER. Calling Sloane to the ER. Sloane to the ER.

Just then, a lanky intern skidded in, dark eyes gleaming and face alive with excitement.

‘DoctorSloaneDoctorSloaneDoctorSloane!’

I grinned, amused at his marvellous ability to execute entire strings of sentences in singular breaths, asking, ‘Yes, Elliot?’

‘You will not believe who they’re calling you down to the ER for!’

‘Who?’

‘Well...did you happen to be watching the Arsenal-Real game this afternoon?’

“Yes, why d– oh no.’

‘Oh yes.’ He nodded.

’Shit.’

---

Adelaide’s POV

‘Addy, hey.’

I smiled and leaned up to kiss my fiancé hello.

‘What brings you here, babe?’ I asked, pressing my lips to his in a chaste kiss.

‘Strictly business, I’m afraid. How’s your fluency in Spanish?’

‘Er, reasonably decent, I suppose. Why?’

‘Come with me; I need you to break this to my patient’s family.’

I shrugged into the pristine white regulation coat I obligatorily wore and followed him downstairs, listening intently to his relation of the injured’s condition.

A tall brunette rose to meet me, nodding for lack of free forelimbs – in his arms was a heart-meltingly adorable blonde toddler in deep slumber.

‘Hola, soy Doctor Adelaide Vaughn,’ I offered with a smile. ‘Soy un terapeuta de rehabilitación de trauma aquí.’

(Hi, I’m Doctor Adelaide Vaughn. I’m a trauma rehabilitation therapist here.)

Another nod. ‘Rene Ramos.’

Anxiety radiated from his every orifice; sepulchral shadows ringed his hollow eyes; deep grooves adorned his forehead. He looked terrible.

‘Delo a mí recto, por favor,’ he quietly requested.

(Give it to me straight, please.)

So I did. The orthopaedic surgeon in charge of the case – my fiancé – had in his possession, for some bizarre reason, a recording of the game including brash tackle which resulted in the injury: an Arsenal versus Real Madrid Champions League match. And Lord, was it clear how bad the break was or what!

Tibia? Shattered. Fibula? Shattered. Platella? Shattered. Femur? Partially fractured. Pelvis? Cracked. Ligaments? Frayed. Tendons? Ruptured. Sergio Ramos? Officially screwed.

The colour drained from his dismayed countenance and he inhaled a deep, shuddering lungful of air.

‘¿Diga sólo esto, ’ he breathed, ‘jugará él otra vez?’

(Just say this, will he play again?)

I sighed. ‘Seré honesto, señor; el daño de nervio sostenido es fuera de nuestras manos. Su salud magnífica ayudará el proceso curativo, por supuesto, pero, um. ..I piensa que las oportunidades son bastante delgadas. Acerca de, dice, 0.5%, tengo miedo.’

(I’ll be honest, sir; the nerve damage sustained is out of our hands. His magnificent health will help the healing process, of course, but, um...I think the chances are pretty slim. About, say, 0.5%, I’m afraid.)

He didn’t need words to voice his response to that; the increasing pallor of his visage said it all.

---

He’s fought and he’s fallen; he’s on his knees before he’s on his feet.