25

A sharp, dull ache ran down Jamie's spine as he woke, the weight of exhaustion pressing into his shoulders like a vice. His neck was stiff, his back sore, the discomfort settling deep into his bones. It took a second to remember where he was—ICU, O'Malley's room.

Jamie shifted slightly in the chair, rolling his stiff shoulders before dragging a hand down his face. His body protested every movement, a consequence of sleeping in the rigid plastic chair for hours.

He let out a slow exhale before glancing toward the bed.

No change.

Harold O'Malley looked exactly the same as he had the night before—pale, still, caught in the liminal space between stability and the unknown. The steady beeping of the monitor filled the room, each beat a reminder that his condition had neither improved nor worsened.

Jamie's gaze drifted to the other side of the bed, where George was curled in his own chair, arms crossed over his chest, his chin tucked low, fast asleep. Even in sleep, his brows were furrowed, tension lining his face.

Jamie's fingers flexed slightly as he became aware of the slight tug at his forearm. He glanced down.

The IV from the banana bag was still in place, the saline bag now completely empty, its tube hanging loosely from the pole.

Carefully, he reached over, stabilizing his own wrist with one hand as he pulled the catheter free. A single drop of blood welled at the insertion site before he pressed a piece of gauze against it. He held it there for a moment before securing it with a strip of medical tape from the bedside table.

Jamie tossed the used IV tubing into the sharps container before pushing himself upright, stretching slightly as he straightened to his full height. His back protested the movement, the soreness settling in deeper, but he ignored it.

He let his gaze sweep over Harold one more time. Nothing had changed. The same slow, steady rise and fall of his chest. The same soft whir of the ventilator.

With one last glance at George—still asleep—he turned toward the door and silently stepped out.

The ICU was eerily quiet at this hour, a stillness that only existed in hospitals before the city fully woke. The distant murmur of nurses, the occasional beep of a machine, the sterile scent of antiseptic clinging to the air.

Jamie made his way to the nursing station, where the overnight nurse—an older woman with graying hair pulled into a tight bun—was reviewing a chart. She looked up as he approached.

"Any change?" His voice was rough, still thick from sleep deprivation.

She shook her head, reaching for Harold's file. "Vitals are stable, no real improvement, but no decline either." She handed him the chart.

Jamie flipped through it, scanning the numbers, searching for something—anything—that might tell him what he wasn't seeing.

Oxygenation levels—still lower than they should be.Blood pressure—holding, but weak.Liver function—showing mild distress.

His brow furrowed.

This should be working.

Harold's body should have started responding to the intervention. His numbers should be shifting, even slightly, toward improvement. Instead, they were stuck—holding steady, but not climbing.

Jamie felt it then—a whisper of doubt curling at the back of his mind.

Had he made the right call?

He exhaled, shutting the chart with a quiet snap before handing it back.

"Let me know the second anything changes," he murmured.

The nurse nodded, but Jamie was already glancing at the clock above the station.

4:30 AM.

Too early for rounds. Too late to sleep.

With a final nod, he turned and left the ICU, uncertainty settling deep in his chest.

------------------------------

The lounge was still. That early-morning kind of still, when the night shift was winding down, but the day hadn't quite begun. The fluorescent light buzzed faintly overhead, casting a dull glow over the worn-out coffee machine, the scattered chairs, the stacks of untouched paperwork on the counter.

Jamie barely noticed any of it.

He sat hunched over the table, head low, pen tapping lightly against an open journal. His coffee cup sat beside him, empty. Again.

Probably not the first. Definitely not the second.

His eyes flicked over dense paragraphs, scanning through surgical studies, flipping between pages filled with case notes and post-op complications.

O'Malley's numbers weren't moving.

Not down. Not up. Just holding.

That was the problem. His body wasn't responding the way it should. His oxygenation should have climbed by now. His BP should have stabilized. Instead, he was stuck in a fragile equilibrium, hanging between improvement and failure.

Jamie turned another page.

There had to be something.

The door swung open.

He didn't look up.

"It's six-thirty in the morning, Knight."

Bailey.

Jamie hummed, still reading. Didn't bother answering.

She stepped forward, stopping near the table, arms crossed.

Jamie turned another page, pen dragging along the margin, marking a section on post-op metabolic stress. He barely heard her.

Bailey exhaled sharply. "What are you doing?"

"Research."

A pause.

Then—the journal was ripped right out of his hands.

Jamie blinked.

His fingers twitched slightly at the sudden absence of paper, his focus snapping as Bailey held the journal up between them.

"Research for what?"

Jamie let out a slow breath, rubbing his jaw before answering.

"O'Malley."

Bailey's expression didn't change. "Did you sleep at all last night?"

Jamie hesitated.

"A few hours," he said.

Bailey raised an eyebrow. "Mmm-hmm."

Jamie exhaled, rolling his shoulders back. He knew where this was going. He also knew Bailey wasn't wrong.

Still, he wasn't ready to stop.

His hands flexed slightly against the table, and for the first time, he said it out loud.

"I think I overestimated his physical condition."

Bailey watched him. Didn't interrupt. Just let the words sit there.

Jamie exhaled, his forehead furrowed slightly. "He's not improving. His vitals should have shifted by now, but he's just—holding. I pushed hard in that surgery because I thought he could take it. But now?" His fingers tapped against the table once. "Now I'm not sure."

Bailey was silent for a beat. Then, voice steady, she said, "My son is named after his son."

She just let the words settle before she added, "You're not the only one who's worried."

Jamie's grip on the pen tightened.

Bailey shifted her weight slightly. "But doubt's not helping anyone."

Jamie ran a hand through his hair.

He knew what this was. He'd spent the night obsessing over numbers, running through case studies, trying to logic his way into an answer that didn't exist.

He was too emotionally involved.

Bailey, apparently satisfied with that realization, smacked him in the arm with the journal.

Bailey shrugged. "Rounds are in a bit."

And with that, she turned and walked out.

Jamie sat there for a second, watching the door swing shut behind her.

Then he looked at his empty coffee cup, sighed, and downed the last few cold drops before pushing himself up.

He grabbed the journal, tucked it under his arm, and followed after her.

------------------------------

Jamie walked through the hospital corridor, his pace even. 

He had just turned the corner when a voice called out.

"Knight."

Jamie stopped. Looked up.

Webber.

The Chief stood a few steps ahead, arms folded, his expression unreadable but purposeful. Jamie had been in enough command briefings to recognize the look.

Jamie exhaled through his nose, slowing his steps as Webber approached.

"I need you to focus," Webber said, voice even. "You took over Burke's cases, and that means you handle them."

Jamie retorts. "I have been."

Webber gave him a pointed look. "You've been focused on O'Malley. Which I understand. You pushed the limits with that surgery, and now all you can do is wait."

Jamie didn't respond.

Webber didn't need him to.

"I put you on Burke's cases for a reason," Webber continued. "I didn't make that choice lightly. But I need you to prove that I didn't make the wrong call."

Jamie exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders out. "Understood."

Webber gave a short nod, then turned and walked away.

Jamie stood there for half a second longer before letting out a slow breath.

Right.

Time to work.

---------------------------------

Jamie approached the nurse's station, scanning the familiar setup—the endless clipboards, the back-and-forth chatter, the scent of stale coffee mixing with antiseptic.

The charge nurse, a woman in her early fifties with razor-sharp efficiency, barely looked up as Jamie stopped in front of the desk.

"Charts for Burke's cardio cases."

Without hesitation, she reached for a stack of patient files and dropped them into his hands.

Jamie barely caught the weight of them.

His brows twitched slightly. This was going to be a long day.

He adjusted the files in his grip, flipping open the top one as he turned away from the desk. He barely made it two steps before something caught his attention.

Or rather, someone.

A few feet away, Meredith, Cristina, and Izzie stood near the waiting room, eyes locked on a single target.

Thatcher Grey.

Jamie stopped mid-step.

Thatcher stood near the coffee cart, muttering into his phone, shifting his weight awkwardly, and—

Spilling coffee everywhere.

Jamie watched as Meredith's expression twitched with barely concealed frustration.

"What do you mean?" Cristina asked, eyes flicking between Thatcher and Meredith.

"I mean, look at him," Meredith muttered. "He's a mess."

Thatcher flailed slightly, trying to wipe up the spilled coffee with too many napkins at once.

"A disaster," Meredith continued. "A stammering, mumbling, clumsy disaster with whom I have absolutely nothing in common."

Izzie let out a quiet laugh. "I hate to break this to you, but…"

Meredith's gaze snapped to her. "What?"

Cristina smirked. "You do your own share of stammering."

"Yeah, that nervous-talking thing?" Izzie added. "It's actually a lot like him."

Jamie turned one page in his chart, only half-listening.

"No, it's not." Meredith folded her arms.

Cristina shrugged. "Plus the messy thing."

Izzie nodded. "Totally."

"You're the messy one."

"My apartment is messy," Cristina clarified. "My locker is messy. But I am not messy."

Jamie flipped another page, scanning vitals.

"Sometimes you have, like… food and stuff in your hair," Izzie pointed out.

Jamie exhaled through his nose. He had seen that.

Meredith glared. "You are in a relationship with no words. And you," she turned to Izzie, "are a millionaire in twenty-dollar shoes."

Jamie shut the chart with a quiet snap.

Since they apparently had the time to be analyzing each other's personalities…

He walked up to them.

"Since you three have time to be chatting," Jamie said, tone even, lifting the stack of charts slightly, "one of you could assist me in reducing this mountain of paperwork."

Yang perked up instantly.

"Absolutely," she said, too quickly, too enthusiastically.

Jamie's brow twitched.

Grey subtly tried to step back.

Jamie's eyes flicked between them before he made a deliberate decision.

"Grey," he said, handing her a stack.

Meredith sighed quietly but took them.

Yang looked personally offended.

Izzie just laughed.

Jamie watched as Grey hesitated, flipping through the first chart in the stack he handed her.

Cristina, predictably, looked irritated.

"You picked Meredith?" she scoffed, folding her arms. "I would have been done twice as fast."

Jamie barely looked at her. "Yeah. That's the problem."

Cristina's scowl deepened.

Izzie, flipping through a chart of her own, hid a smile.

Jamie adjusted the stack of files in his arms, glancing back at Grey.

"When you're done," he said, voice even, "scrub in on the CABG."

Grey's eyes flicked up from the chart.

"See you in the OR."

Then, just as he turned, his eyes narrowed slightly.

"And take that thing out of your hair," he added, tilting his head slightly toward the stray piece of something sticking near her temple.

Grey frowned, instinctively reaching up.

Jamie didn't wait for a response.

"Before you infect my patients."

Grey sighed under her breath. "Of course."

Cristina scoffed. "If she gets to scrub in, I should—"

"What are you waiting for?" Jamie cut in, already turning away. "Rounds are beginning."

The three interns glanced at each other.

Jamie glanced at the clock.

"Bailey is already waiting," he added. "And she's grumpy today."

The reaction was immediate.

Cristina grabbed her charts and all but stormed off. Izzie and Meredith hurried after her.

Jamie rolled his shoulders out, exhaling slowly.

Then, from behind him—

"Damn," a familiar voice drawled. "And here I thought I was the only one who enjoyed treating them like crap."

Jamie didn't need to turn around to know who it was.

He did anyway.

Mark Sloan.

The plastic surgeon was standing there, coffee in hand, watching the fleeing interns with a lazy, amused smirk.

Jamie threw him a glance.

Then rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, just that I'm not a twisted manwh*re with the impulse control of a horny thirteen-year-old."

Sloan's smirk widened.

Jamie shrugged slightly, turning away. "I believe that's what Shepherd's mom used to describe you with."

Sloan let out a low, amused chuckle.

Jamie didn't wait for a response.

------------------------------

Jamie walked down the hallway, flipping through the chart of the CABG patient he had assigned to Grey. He had already scanned the pre-op notes, but he wanted to see the patient himself before heading into surgery.

The patient's room was quiet, the dim morning light filtering through the blinds. Inside, a middle-aged man in his late fifties sat upright in bed, IV line running from his arm, heart monitor beeping steadily beside him. He looked up as Jamie stepped inside.

Jamie barely had time to glance at the vitals before the door opened behind him.

Grey.

Jamie didn't look up from the chart.

"You took your time, Grey."

Meredith shot him a look but said nothing as she stepped further into the room. She adjusted the clipboard in her hands, cleared her throat, and started presenting.

"Mr. Henry Garrison, 57 years old. Scheduled for coronary artery bypass grafting (CABG) today due to severe triple-vessel disease. Pre-op ejection fraction is 40%, which puts him at a moderate risk category. Cardiac enzymes are within normal limits, and there's no evidence of acute infarction. His pre-op labs are stable, but he has a history of hypertension and hyperlipidemia."

Jamie nodded slightly, flipping to the latest ECG and imaging reports.

"Stress test?"

"Positive at eight minutes, showing ST depressions in the inferior leads," Grey answered quickly.

Jamie let out a quiet exhale. Eight minutes was low for a man his age. It confirmed what they already knew—his heart was working too hard to keep up.

Jamie turned to Henry, closing the chart.

"How are you feeling this morning?"

The man gave him a wry smile. "Not as good as I was ten years ago."

Jamie smiled slightly. "That's why we're here."

Henry exhaled, nodding. "My wife made me promise I wouldn't die on her."

"Good incentive." Jamie pulled up the stool beside the bed, his tone even but direct. "Your coronary arteries are severely narrowed. Without surgery, your risk of a major heart attack in the next year is high—over 30%. The bypass will restore proper blood flow to your heart. It's a long procedure, but a routine one in cardiac surgery."

Henry pressed his lips together, thoughtful.

Jamie continued, his voice measured. "We'll be using the left internal mammary artery (LIMA) for the bypass graft. It has a better long-term patency rate than a saphenous vein graft alone. You'll be on cardiopulmonary bypass while we operate, and once we're done, you'll spend a few days in the ICU before transitioning to step-down care."

Henry let out a slow breath.

Jamie glanced at Grey. "Surgical risks?"

Meredith straightened slightly. "Bleeding, infection, stroke, post-op atrial fibrillation, kidney dysfunction—"

"And the one we worry about most?"

"Pump failure," she said. "If his heart function deteriorates post-op, he may need temporary mechanical support."

Jamie nodded. "Good." He looked back at Henry. "We're going to do everything we can to avoid that, which means keeping your blood pressure controlled and making sure you're stable before we take you into the OR."

Henry rubbed a hand over his chest. "I trust you, Doc."

Jamie's expression stayed even. "Good. Then let's get you prepped."

He turned to Grey.

"Get him consented, pre-medicated, and make sure anesthesia clears him before we roll."

Meredith nodded. "Yes, Dr. Knight."

Jamie stood, flipping the chart closed.

"I'll see you in the OR, Mr. Garrison."

Henry gave him a gruff nod.

Jamie was already moving toward the door, his mind shifting toward the upcoming procedure.

-------------------------------

The silence between Meredith and Henry stretched, the steady beep of the monitors filling the space. Henry shifted slightly in bed, his fingers tapping against the blanket as his gaze lingered on the door Jamie had just walked through.

His expression was thoughtful, almost calculating, before he let out a quiet huff.

"Seemed like he was in a rush," Henry muttered, eyes still on the door.

Meredith blinked, caught slightly off guard.

"You mean Dr. Knight?" she asked.

Henry gave a small, dry chuckle. "Yeah. The guy barely stopped moving long enough to breathe." He tilted his head slightly, studying her reaction. "He always like that?"

Meredith hesitated for half a second before shaking her head. "Not always," she admitted, then added, "But right now? Yeah."

Henry raised a brow, waiting.

Meredith sighed, shifting slightly as she folded her arms. "Dr. Knight took over for Dr. Burke. The Chief of Cardiothoracic Surgery." She glanced at the monitors, scanning Henry's vitals out of habit before continuing. "Burke's in the hospital himself, so Jamie's handling all of his cases on top of his own."

Henry's brows furrowed slightly. "So, what, they just dumped an entire department on him?"

Meredith let out a small huff of amusement. "Pretty much."

Henry exhaled, shaking his head. "Damn." He paused, considering. "And he's still doing my surgery?"

Meredith glanced at the door, then back at him.

"Yeah," she said simply.

Henry studied her for a beat longer, then settled back against the pillows. "Huh." A pause. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, "Well, guess I got the right guy, then."

Meredith's lips twitched slightly.

"You did," she said, her voice even, steady. "Jamie's one of the best."

Henry hummed, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly in what might have been approval.

"Good to know."

The beeping of the monitor filled the room again, steady, rhythmic.

Meredith adjusted the blanket over his chest slightly, more for herself than for him. "I'll be with you in the OR the whole time," she added.

Henry chuckled, shaking his head. "Sounds like a plan."

-----------------------------

The operating room was calm, the steady sound of the monitors filling the space, a mechanical heartbeat counting down the hours Jamie would spend inside someone's chest.

Jamie stood across from Meredith, focused on the patient. His surgical mask covered his expression, but his sharp blue eyes gave away nothing but focus.

The patient, Henry Garrison, lay prepped on the table, his chest scrubbed and draped in sterile blue, his vitals holding steady.

The perfusionist stood by, monitoring the cardiopulmonary bypass machine, already prepping for the moment Jamie would need to stop the heart. Surgical techs and nurses moved with efficiency, laying out instruments on the Mayo stand.

"Alright," Jamie said, voice even, controlled. "Let's get started."

Jamie's gloved fingers flexed once before he extended his hand.

"10 blade."

A nurse placed the scalpel in his palm, the cool weight grounding him.

With a single, clean motion, Jamie made the initial midline sternotomy, the scalpel slicing precisely through skin and subcutaneous tissue until he reached the sternum. The controlled cut minimized bleeding, but there was always some—small streaks welling up along the incision.

"Bovie," Jamie said without hesitation.

The electrocautery pen was placed in his hand, and he worked quickly to cauterize the small vessels, stopping any residual bleeding.

Meredith, standing across from him, carefully held the skin back with retractors, her hands steady, eyes following his every move.

Jamie motioned for the sternal saw.

A scrub tech placed it in his hands, the whir of the oscillating saw filling the air as Jamie precisely cut through the sternum, exposing the mediastinum. Small flecks of bone dust collected around the incision, and Jamie worked with his usual precision, avoiding the pericardium beneath.

As soon as the sternum was split, he handed the saw back.

"Rib spreader."

The surgical assistant positioned the Finochietto retractor, slowly cranking it open. The rib cage widened, allowing full exposure of the heart, beating steadily in its pericardial sac.

Jamie took a moment, scanning the exposed myocardium, ensuring there were no unexpected complications before proceeding.

"Pericardial stay sutures," he instructed.

Meredith carefully used silk sutures to suspend the pericardium, exposing the heart fully while preventing interference with the bypass grafting.

Now, they could see everything—the left internal mammary artery (LIMA), the diseased coronary vessels, and the heart itself, contracting with precise rhythm.

-----------

Jamie extended his hand.

"Potts scissors."

The nurse hesitated for half a second before handing him a Metzenbaum scissors instead.

Jamie's brows twitched slightly beneath his mask as he glanced down at the tool.

The nurse spoke up. "Dr. Burke prefers Metzenbaums for vessel dissection."

Jamie didn't even pause. "I prefer Potts."

A beat of silence. Then the scrub tech quickly switched instruments, handing him the correct one.

With the Potts scissors, Jamie carefully harvested the LIMA—delicate work, freeing the artery while preserving its endothelial lining. His hands were quick but careful, ensuring the artery was prepared for grafting without damage.

Meredith kept her focus sharp, watching as he dissected the artery from the chest wall, carefully maintaining its blood supply.

-----------

Jamie looked up.

"Alright, let's cool him down. 32 degrees."

The perfusionist adjusted the cooling on the bypass machine, slowly dropping Henry's core temperature to reduce metabolic demand and protect against ischemic damage.

Jamie reached for the ascending aorta with practiced ease.

"Give me the purse-string sutures."

Meredith passed the needle driver, and Jamie placed the sutures into the aorta, carefully tying them down before inserting the aortic cannula.

"Clamping the aorta."

The surgical clamp snapped into place, stopping blood flow to the heart.

Within seconds, the monitors flatlined.

The heart stopped.

Complete stillness.

-----------

Now, with the heart still, Jamie moved quickly.

"Distal anastomosis first," he said, extending his hand. "Scalpel."

With extreme precision, Jamie made a small arteriotomy in the left anterior descending (LAD) artery, the narrowed vessel that had been restricting blood flow.

"Suction."

Meredith adjusted the suction catheter, keeping the field clear as Jamie sutured the LIMA to the LAD, working under magnification to ensure perfect placement.

He used 8-0 prolene sutures, incredibly fine, looping them in smooth, even strokes.

As soon as the LIMA-LAD graft was completed, he flushed it gently with heparinized saline, ensuring there were no leaks.

"Flow looks good," Jamie murmured.

Meredith nodded, watching the arterial graft begin to fill.

----------

Just as Jamie was about to move on to the next step, a sudden beep from the monitors cut through the OR.

"Pressure's dropping," the anesthesiologist called out.

Jamie's head snapped up, eyes flicking to the mean arterial pressure (MAP)—it was plummeting.

A second later—

"Bleeder!" Meredith's voice was sharp. "There's a tear in the right atrial appendage!"

Shit.

Jamie reacted instantly. "Suction!"

Meredith was already there, clearing the field as a rapid bloom of blood filled the pericardial sac.

Jamie extended his hand. "Pledgeted prolene sutures. 5-0."

The nurse scrambled to pass them over.

Jamie worked fast but precise, his gloved fingers moving with unshakable control as he carefully placed reinforced sutures into the fragile tissue.

The bleed was nearly controlled, the last stitch securing the repair when—

Beep. Beep. Beep.

A sharp, insistent vibration against his hip.

Jamie barely registered it at first, too focused on making sure the repair held. His mind shoved everything else aside.

Then—

The circulating nurse cleared her throat.

"Dr. Knight," she said carefully, "you're being paged. It's the ICU. It's O'Malley's room."

Jamie froze for a half-second.

Then—he forced his hands to keep moving.

"Ignore it," he said, voice clipped, eyes locked on the field.

The nurse hesitated.

A moment later, the OR doors swung open.

Bailey stepped in. Her expression was unreadable.

Jamie didn't look up. "I'm in the middle of an anastomosis."

Bailey exhaled sharply, stepping closer.

"Harold's endotracheal tube has a kink in it," she said. "Respiratory is trying to reposition, but his oxygenation is dropping fast."

Meredith's head snapped up across the table, but Jamie—

Jamie didn't even flinch.

"I can't leave," Jamie said, voice level, hands still moving with methodical precision. He took another stitch, pulling the suture through cleanly. "You can handle it."

Bailey didn't argue that point—because she could handle it.

But she hesitated.

"You sure about this, Knight?"

Jamie tied off the last knot, finally shifting his gaze to Meredith.

"You go," he told her, not a request.

Meredith hesitated only a second before she nodded, stepping back from the table, stripping off her gloves quickly.

Jamie finally flicked his eyes up to Bailey. "Keep me updated."

Bailey studied him for a second longer. Then she gave a short, knowing nod.

Meredith followed her out the door.

Jamie turned back to the heart in front of him.

"Let's finish this."

-----------------------------------------

The conference room was small and quiet, filled only with the low hum of fluorescent lights and the rhythmic tick of a clock on the wall. The weight of impending news pressing down on the family seated around the table.

Bailey sat across from them, her hands clasped together on the table. Her voice was measured, steady.

"I called you all in because I need to do a procedure on your father to help him breathe."

Ronny leaned forward slightly, his brows furrowing. "So you're saying he can't breathe?"

Bailey exhaled, shaking her head slightly. "With the extent of his surgery, your father is not breathing on his own. That's why we still have him intubated."

Jerry frowned. "Intubated?"

George spoke up before Bailey could. "The tube in Dad's mouth—it's breathing for him."

Bailey gave him a small nod of confirmation before continuing. "And right now, that tube has a kink in it, which is straining his breathing."

Louise O'Malley, sitting between her sons, gripped her hands tightly in her lap. "How does a tube just... get a kink in it?"

George inhaled deeply before answering. "It just happens. We don't always know why."

Ronny's voice was quick, defensive. "But he's doing good today, right? I mean, he made plenty of pee, so..."

Bailey's gaze was even, unwavering. "Still, we need to replace the tube."

Ronny's brow furrowed deeper. "So why don't you just do it? What are we waiting for?"

Bailey sat forward slightly, her voice careful now. "With the damage to your father's esophagus, and the swelling in his throat from being intubated this long…" She hesitated for half a second before finishing, "…it's going to be a complicated procedure."

George straightened slightly. His voice was quiet but firm. "You might not be able to get it in? The new tube?"

Bailey exhaled. "Under these circumstances, there's a real risk I won't be successful." She let the words settle. "I'm saying you need to prepare yourselves."

The weight of the statement hung heavy over the table.

Louise covered her mouth, eyes wet but not yet crying. Ronny shifted uncomfortably, his fingers gripping his knee. Jerry looked down.

------------------------------

Inside the ICU, Bailey stood over Harold, her gloved hands tightening momentarily before she exhaled, steadying herself.

"Alright, let's do this," she muttered, masking the tension in her voice.

She glanced at Webber, who stood at her side, his presence both steadying and expectant.

"You want to handle this, Chief?" she asked.

Webber shook his head, voice firm but calm. "Dr. Bailey, you have a lot more hands-on hours these days than I do. I'll be standing by to help, but this is all yours."

Bailey gave a tight nod.

"Alright, Grey, let me have an 8.0 endotracheal tube."

Meredith passed the tube quickly, watching Bailey's hands move with careful precision.

Bailey reached for the laryngoscope, tilting Harold's head back slightly as she worked to visualize the vocal cords. The overhead light cast a sharp glow over the field as she guided the tube forward.

She barely got past the epiglottis before—

Something wasn't right.

Her brows furrowed.

Her hands tensed slightly as she adjusted her angle, trying to advance further.

But the tube wasn't passing.

Bailey exhaled through her nose. "Damn it. It's too tight."

Meredith's voice was low, careful. "Is it the swelling?"

Bailey didn't answer immediately.

Instead, she withdrew the tube slightly, her eyes flicking toward the oxygen saturation levels.

SpO2: 88%.

They were losing time.

Bailey set her jaw. "Let me have a 7.5."

Meredith moved fast, passing her a slightly smaller tube.

Bailey carefully maneuvered past the swelling, her movements precise, deliberate. For a second, nothing.

Then—

The tube slipped into place.

Bailey's hands were already moving, inflating the cuff, securing the placement.

Webber's voice cut through the tension.

"Pulse ox?"

A beat.

"89%... 91%..."

Bailey exhaled, stepping back slightly. The tube was in.

Webber's voice was steady. "Beautiful job."

Bailey didn't react immediately. She just stared at Harold for a moment—his chest rising in shallow but steady breaths, the ventilator now working properly.

Meredith hesitated before speaking. "Can I go tell George?"

Bailey nodded.

Meredith turned, quickly stepping out of the room.

Webber studied Bailey for a moment before asking, "You alright?"

Bailey inhaled deeply.

"My son is named after his son," she muttered.

A pause.

"I just need a minute."

------------------------------