Three hours later they wheeled me out. My face held no color at all. I made it to the corridor bench under my own power, barely, one hand against the wall, the other pressed to my abdomen where a low, steady pain pulsed like a second heartbeat that had nowhere left to go.
Then a commotion erupted at the far end of the hallway.
A familiar figure swept past, carrying someone in his arms, moving fast, two soldiers flanking him. He disappeared around the corner toward the emergency ward. Minutes later he came back, alone, scanning the corridor. His eyes found me.
"Get up. Come with me. Now."
He didn't wait for an answer. He seized my arm and pulled me after him at a half-run. I had come out of surgery less than an hour ago. Every step sent pain rolling through me in waves. My vision blurred at the edges. My face went from pale to white.
He did not notice.
He didn't stop until we reached the transfusion room. He pushed the door open with his shoulder and spoke to the nurse on duty without letting go of my arm.
"Her blood type matches. Draw from her."