“Oh my God!” Jenna reached out and squeezed my upper arm. “Isn't this exciting?”
“About as exciting as getting a tooth pulled.”
“Oh, come on.” She nudged me down the hall to our station—a first-aid area where the triage nurse would assign us non-life-threatening cases, such as cuts, bruises, and breaks.
Jenna stiffened as we entered the pale-blue clinical room. “Be on your best behavior,” she whispered. “Today is important. This determines where we get stationed next.”
“I know. I wish we didn't have to leave this base.”
She smiled. “If we're lucky, we'll both be sent to the same place.”
“Maybe,” I said, pinching my nose at the strong whiff of disinfectant.
We busied ourselves preparing first aid supplies, setting up beds, cots, sheets, and blankets.
The triage nurse checked on us. “Ready, ladies?”
I nodded, and Jenna answered formally, following protocol.
In two high corners, small cameras captured our movements—probably our conversations, too. I glanced at one and broke out in a sweat knowing someone was watching.
Soldiers had to give up privacy. Still, I had to be careful when using my touch. As we waited, I figured out where to position patients so my back faced the camera—out of view of prying eyes. Even Jenna didn't know about my nanotech implants.
So far, I’d had little need for them. Except for a few weeks ago, when a heart attack victim had come in. As Merck had tried to resuscitate the man, I’d rested a hand on his shoulder and concentrated. No one had noticed the nanobots that had traveled to his chest and repaired the damage. The patient had lived. Yet, Merck had been angry—he’d been yelling at me to leave, but I hadn’t heard him; I’d been so focused. Afterward, he’d written me up, and I’d lost rec room privileges for a month.
Our first drill “victim” limped in through the door.
Jenna rushed over. “What happened?”
He leaned against her and removed his helmet. “I was running, and a bullet grazed me.” He clutched his side, pointing to a pretend wound near his abdomen.
“Here, sit.” She guided him to a low bed.
Two more people dashed in, complaining about other fake injuries.
“Ida,” Jenna said, “Tend to the bullet wound victim. Administer first aid. I’ll see to the others.”
She was good at this. Not only would she be an able medic, but she’d train others too.
Nodding, I carried a supply kit over to the soldier, then rifled through the supplies and peered up at him. “What's your name?”
“Williams.”
“Where does it hurt?”
“On my side.” He lifted his shirt up to reveal a red X drawn with a magic marker.
“Nice abs. Here. Take this bandage and apply pressure,” I said, handing him gauze.
He smirked. “Aren’t you supposed to do that?”
I rolled my eyes. “This is pretend.”
His smirk became a grin. “You have quite the bedside manner, you know.”
“Are you gonna report me?”
He leaned in, dropped his voice a level. “How about you go out with me later, and I won't say a word?”
Williams, with his hawkish nose, stubbly jawline, and six-pack, was cute, but I didn’t want to start something right now. After a few awkward seconds of me ignoring his comment, he shifted his feet and winced.
“What was that look for?” I asked.
“Nothing. I twisted my ankle earlier today on a run.”
“Why didn't you say so? Heaven forbid, a real injury.”
“I tried ice, thought I could shake it off, but it still hurts.”
“Let me see.” He kicked off his boot, and I crouched, rolling up his right pants leg. His swollen ankle had turned an unusual salmon shade. “This is more than a twist.”
“Shit. I was worried about that. I guess I'll have to get it X-rayed later.”
“I’ll try something.” Peeking behind me at the cameras, I made sure my back obscured the view. I gripped both palms around his ankle and shut my eyes. The tingling in my arms began, then traveled down into my hands, fingertips, and crossed beneath his skin. The nanobots swarmed into his tissue and spun along the fracture in his tibia. A light sprain; the healing process didn't take long. I opened my eyes and stood.
“What did you do? That felt… weird.”
“What did it feel like?” I’d never had a chance to ask Peterson, or the man who’d suffered the heart attack, about the sensations.
“Like tingling, I guess.”
“That’s weird. I adjusted your bones. Try moving.”
He shifted forward as if to lean on his foot, but then stared at something behind me.
I spun and found Merck looming, hands on his hips. “Sarek, what the hell is going on?”
How long had he been watching? I wondered as a blush crawled up my neck.
He studied his tablet. “This soldier has a gunshot wound on his right side. I don't see any bandages applied. No IV in his arm. What are you doing?”
Williams tried to help. “She's been very good—”
“I didn't ask you,” Merck said. “Sarek, you’ll administer an IV into this man as I watch. My records show you don't even have one IV logged. You need to have eight IVs witnessed and logged by supervisors in order to graduate.”
My heart dipped. An IV meant needles. And nausea. I’d passed out the first time I tried to IV another student. Since then, Jenna had covered for me every time one was necessary.
Eight IVs required to be a medic. So far, I didn’t even have one.
“Yes, sir. Right away.” I wheeled over the IV stand, reached into my kit, and pulled out a sterile syringe. My fingers trembled as I unwrapped the plastic bag. Avoiding the needle tip, I attached one end to the IV tube.
Merck watched the entire time, and my skin crawled. Williams rolled up his sleeve, and I tied a rubber tourniquet around his bicep. Williams
