"There's nothing else we can do."
"But we've stopped the bleeding! Any moment now he'll stabilize, and then all we have to do is—"
"He's gone; it's over, Caity."
"It's not over! There's got to be something else we can do—"
"Miss Miller!" Strong hands grabbed Caity by the arms and turned her away from the table. She realized how badly she was shaking. Dr. Willard's face cleared and blurred in turns. "How long has it been since you rested?"
"But, I'm needed here, we still have work to do—"
"Caity, listen to me. I know we're busy at the moment, but you're pushing yourself too hard. None of us can be expected to be perfect on this job. You're not going to do much good if you just run yourself ragged."
She knew the older man had a fair point, but she couldn't stand to sit around and do nothing. Neither, she discovered, however, could she summon much energy to resist the doctor's gentle leading from the operating room.
"There are a few nurses escorting soldiers from the front. They'll be able to help while you rest awhile." They paused at the sink so Caity could wash her hands and retrieve her cane before heading to the staff lounge. "Lie down for a couple hours. Someone will fetch you if you're absolutely needed."
"Thank you," was all Caity could manage. The sight of the worn sofa made her realize how exhausted she really was. She didn't even bother to fix the pile of charts that sat on the coffee table. Dr. Willard was right—forcing herself to continue wouldn't make time work faster. And it wasn't going to make Peter appear like magic. She had acted silly…
Caity bolted upright. Someone was leaving the lounge, but it was not Dr. Willard. At some point, a blanket had been placed over her. But by whom? The pile of charts had been haphazardly adjusted, however, and was about to slide off. She caught it—and something caught her attention. All exhaustion forgotten, she began to flip through the pile.
Baker, Tillman, Wilkes, Harker, Messing…
Pevensie.
Her heart nearly stopped. Without even bothering with her cane, Caity hobbled out of the lounge and toward the main wards. She didn't know if it was excitement or terror that drove her, but drive her it did. Dr. Willard's voice could be heard shouting for her to come back, as well as a couple other yelps of surprise. She ignored them.
Compared to the dim lounge, the ward was almost painfully bright. Still, she hardly waited for her eyes to adjust before pressing on with her search. He had to be here.
A red-haired nurse, her back to Caity, stepped to one side to reveal a tousled, dirty-blonde mop. Peter's face was dreadfully pale, and marred by several ugly-looking scrapes and bruises. A fresh, thick cast covered his right arm from hand to elbow.
"Excuse me—oh, Caity!" It was Lizabeth who was tending him. Caity was surprised enough to allow her friend to embrace her.
"How is he? You must have arrived while I was resting—Dr. Willard made me—oh, I'm so glad both of you are safe!" Tears were flowing freely down Caity's cheeks. She didn't care about making a scene, though. Nothing else seemed to matter at all.
Lizabeth finally pulled back enough to speak face to face. "He's very ill, Caity. I don't know where he was stationed, but he wandered into camp a few nights past. Injured, feverish, and sopping wet, he was. Heaven only knows what he's been through." She placed a cold compress on Peter's forehead, and left Caity to some privacy.
"Oh, Peter…" Caity bit her lip, almost fearfully touching the young man's good arm. He was thinner than she remembered, and there was a shadow of a beard on his face. War had changed him. "You're safe now. That's all that matters. You've come home," she whispered.
It might have just been her imagination, but Peter's expression seemed to relax ever so slightly.
