Young Dr. John Watson was not having the best day. He'd just spent 6 hours in surgery assisting the senior attending with the case of a young girl, an unrestrained passenger ejected from a car following a high-speed crash. She'd been brought in by helicopter from the country. They'd nearly lost her on the table twice. Afterward, he accompanied her up to her room in the pediatric ICU and explained the findings and the dismal prognosis to her distraught grandmother.

The nursing sisters said he was good at that: Calm and gentle but honest. They said the families were left with the impression that even in this bustling big city hospital there was someone who cared, someone who would mourn with them when things went badly.

For Dr. John Watson, it wasn't just an impression; it was the truth. His attending warned him that he needed to toughen up, put some distance between himself and his patients, but he couldn't do it, couldn't turn his heart to ice.

The house officer's mobile that he carried chimed as he stepped out of the Gents. He closed his eyes tightly for a moment, head down and shoulders slumped. He didn't need to look at the text. He'd heard the end of the overhead page. "Your attention please. Pediatric ICU bed 10. Code Blue."