Yours: A Standalone Contemporary Romance by Jasinda Wilder Page A

stab wounds, concussions and contusions, car accidents and cardiac arrests.  
    Through it all, we stay calm, because that ’ s what we do.  
    As the shift finally comes to an end, I spare a thought for the future. I wonder what it ’ ll be like, in Africa.  

    *   *   *

    Bangui, Central African Republic  
    Six months later

    “Niall! Get your ass over here!” Oliver shouts from the other side of the tent.  
    “I ’ m kinda busy, Ollie!” I shout back.
    “I ’ ll take over,” François says in French, stepping in, taking over my suturing job. “He needs you. It ’ s bad.”  
    I strip off my gloves, toss them in a garbage can, and tug a new pair out of a box on my way over to Oliver ’ s table.  
    Fuck.
    He ’ s working on an adult male, late forties. Entire stomach is blown open, intestines pulled out of the cavity to reveal a rupture, blood gushing like something out of a Tarantino film. One leg is missing from the knee down, the stump blackened and oozing.
    Mine, or a car bomb.
    Oliver is covered in blood up to his elbows, and from his hips to his chest. His face is covered in a mask, but I can see his eyes are laser-focused on the job at hand.  
    He feels me come up beside him, and doesn ’ t have to tell me what he needs. One glance, and I ’ m on it. I take the forceps from him and hold them, then blot away the blood so Ollie can see what he ’ s doing. We manage to stop the internal bleeding, then Ollie dumps the intestines back in the cavity and we both watch as they rearrange themselves. He pulls the edges of the gaping stomach wound back together, and then Ollie leaves me to do the sutures while he tends to the leg. Remove shrapnel, clean it, cauterize it, and bandage it.
    Finally done, Ollie steps away and lets someone else move the patient to a recovery tent. We strip off our blood-soaked gear, step out of the tent and into the blazing African sun. Walk together in silence, both of us pretending our hands aren ’ t shaking.  
    “You can ’ t fucking hesitate, Niall,” he says, his voice tired, a little angry.  
    “I didn ’ t hesitate . I was stitching somebody ’ s arm back on, okay?” I ’ m defensive.
    “If I need you, I need you right away. Get someone to take over and get where I need you. You have to trust me to know what ’ s a priority.”  
    “I ’ m sorry.” I want to think I know better, but he ’ s the surgeon, and I ’ m the nurse.  
    He ’ s got lots of experience on me. My job is to trust him.
    “How ’ re you holding up?” He leans up against a two-ton truck, rubbing his eyes.  
    “Fine,” I sigh. “You?”
    “Well, aside from having been awake for thirty hours, I ’ m just dandy.”  
    I ’ m about to say something else, but a truck rumbles into the station, and the air is filled with shouts in English, French, and several African dialects. There ’ s a swarm of activity, crimson-soaked bodies being hauled out of the back of the truck and carried to the triage tent.  
    “Ollie!” Dominique, shouting, urgent. “Need you, now !”
    A sigh. “Hello, another thirty hours.” Ollie pinches the back of my neck and rubs it. “You ’ re doing great, Niall. But trust me, yeah?”
    “I will. I mean…I do.” I glance up at him. Our eyes meet, and the sparks are there.  
    We ’ ve been too busy for anything to happen between us, but we both know it ’ s on the horizon. If we ever get a break. If the fighting ever dies down. The UN has nearly evacuated us a few times, it ’ s gotten so bad. But Dominique refuses to leave, and so do the rest of us. When the fighting is at its worst, that ’ s when we ’ re needed the most. They ’ ll have to tie us up and drag us away to get us out of here. This is what we do.
    Namely, run back to the triage tent, tug on gloves, pull on new aprons, and assess incoming. Sort the dying from the ones who ’ ll make it with immediate treatment, get Ollie working on the worst cases, me beside him,