Everything was noise.

The screams around, the sound of wheels clattering against the tile, the rapid footsteps, the overlapping orders barked through surgical masks, but none of it made sense to Aaron Kingston.

The fluorescent lights overhead blurred into long streaks, smearing like white lightning against the black edges of his vision. He was cold. So cold. But his skin burned wherever it wasn’t numb.

Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, drying against his cheek. His chest rose in shallow, jagged gasps.

“He’s crashing—get the crash cart!”

“Pupils reacting—barely.”

“Possible internal bleeding. Prep the OR now!”

They were yelling over him, around him, above him.

But their voices...