Page 35 of Seven Minutes
ADRIAN
They came for him just after lunch.
The transport team rolled in with their MRI-compatible ventilator and the portable monitors, filling the room with motion and quiet urgency. They checked tubes, taped lines, and switched leads to the non-magnetic kind. I’d done this a hundred times for other patients. This was the first time my hands shook.
I stood back, trying not to get in the way. The nurse confirmed sedation. The respiratory therapist disconnected the standard vent, connected the MRI-safe tubing, and watched for any drop in oxygen. The hum of the machine changed pitch to a lower, mechanical vibration that sounded foreign.
“He’ll be fine, Dr. Hawke,” the tech said gently. “We do this all the time.”
I nodded, though my throat wouldn’t let me answer. I’dsaid those same words to other families. I knew how useless they sounded.
When they wheeled him out, the hiss of the ventilator followed, a steady sigh of borrowed breath. I trailed a few steps behind, down the hall that had never looked so long. I’d walked this corridor a thousand times as a physician, always brisk, detached, efficient. But now the lighting felt harsh, the air sterile, the floor too white. From this side of the glass, the hospital was merciless. It smelled of bleach and fear.
They parked him outside the MRI suite while they prepped the room. The air inside was cold, the magnet’s distant hum thrumming through the walls like a slow pulse. The team lifted Eli onto the narrow table, tucking sheets around his body as though he might feel the chill. His skin looked pale under the harsh lights, lips parted around the tube, lashes still against his cheeks. A lock of hair had fallen across his forehead. I smoothed it back before I could stop myself.
“Okay,” the tech called. “We’re ready.”
I stayed outside the door, behind the safety glass, watching as they slid him into the bore of the magnet. The machine started its slow, rhythmic pounding, each thud a heartbeat I couldn’t trust. I pressed a palm against the cool glass.
Please, I thought. Just give me something good. Anything.
Minutes stretched into forever. Every alarm, every faint shift in the monitor sent adrenaline racing through my chest. I tried to focus on the data—oxygen saturation steady, end-tidal CO2 normal—but all I saw was the slight rise and fall of his chest, that fragile motion holding the world together.
The waiting was worse than any code I’d ever run. The MRIsuite doors closed behind him twenty minutes ago, leaving me to pace the hallway like a ghost.
“You hate hospitals,” I whispered. “I know. Just hang on, baby.”
And then, like a crack in the dam, memory flooded in.
It had been late spring five years ago. A Saturday that smelled of rain and honeysuckle. Eli had been out on his bike, the one he’d insisted on fixing up himself, claiming it was ‘vintage’ and not ‘a death trap,’ which was what I’d called it every time the chain slipped. God forbid he allowed me to buy him a nice, sturdy mountain bike with solid tires and no rust.
When I heard the crash outside, I sprinted down the driveway to find him sprawled in the gravel, jeans ripped, blood trickling down his forearm.
“Jesus, Eli,” I gasped, crouching down beside him. “You couldn’t just buy a new one?”
He winced, laughing through the pain. “You always say that like money’s the solution to every problem.”
“Well, it would’ve solvedthisone,” I shot back, but my hands were already steadying him, doctor mode flicking on. “Can you move your wrist?”
He could. Barely. But his elbow was bleeding enough to need stitches.
He refused the ER, of course. “You’ve got supplies. You’re practically a walking hospital.”
“Supplies, yes. Patience, no.”
He grinned at me with that infuriating, disarming smirk. “Then you’d better hurry before I bleed out.”
I’d helped him into the kitchen, the scent of coffee stilllingering from breakfast. After laying out gauze and thread, I cleaned his wound while he sat on the counter, bare-chested, legs swinging, watching me with a kind of quiet trust that made my pulse skip.
“Hold still,” I warned.
“You’re the one shaking,” he teased.
“I’m not?—”
He reached out, resting his good hand against my jaw. “You are.” His voice softened. “It’s okay, Adrian. You’re allowed to care.”
Something in me fused right then. The mix of worry and want, of wanting to yell at him for being reckless and kiss him for still being here.
