Chapter 173

Chapter 173

Abigail hung up the phone, grabbed her stethoscope, and headed out.

The operating room was ready. She scanned the patient's chart, gave a quick nod, and said, "Alright everyone, let's begin."

Three hours into the surgery, the numbers on the monitor started going haywire.

"Blood pressure won't hold—"

Sweat ran down Abigail's temple along the edge of her mask. No time to wipe it. She called out another round of dosages.

But the patient's body was like a bucket full of holes — nothing they pushed in would stay.

The heart rhythm went from peaks and valleys to a flat line in less than four minutes.

The team ran two rounds of CPR. Everyone's arms were shaking.

Abigail glanced at the clock and pulled down her mask.

"4:15 AM. Let's call it."

No one spoke.

The scrub nurse turned away to wipe her eyes. The anesthesiologist switched off the monitor's sound. The only thing left in the room was the soft hiss of air as the ventilator was disconnected.

After taking care of everything in the OR, Abigail walked out, exhausted to the bone.

The moment she pushed open the door, a pair of rough, calloused hands grabbed her sleeve and wouldn't let go.

"Doctor, how's my son? He's only twenty-three — he can't be dead—"

The old woman's face was inches from hers, tears and snot running together, her eyes holding onto hope like a dying flame.

Abigail's throat tightened. She was quiet for two seconds before she spoke softly. "His injuries were too severe. We did everything we could."

The hand gripping her sleeve went limp.

The old woman fell straight back and was caught by the middle-aged man standing behind her.

He didn't look at his mother. His eyes were locked on Abigail, burning with anger.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I'm so sorry—"

"Sorry doesn't bring him back!" His voice shot up. Spit nearly hit her face. "Why didn't you say something sooner? What did you tell us when you had us sign the consent forms? You said there was a chance! And now you're telling me you tried your best?"

People waiting in the hallway started turning to look. Abigail stepped back half a step and kept her voice low. "Surgery always carries risks. He'd already lost too much blood when he came in—"

"I don't want to hear it!" He slammed his palm against the wall, making the plastic chairs nearby rattle. "You're just incompetent! A real doctor would've saved him. What did you do — take our money and then give up?"

"I completely understand how you're feeling right now. But we truly did everything we could. Please accept my deepest condolences."

Abigail tried to explain the situation as clearly as she could, but neither of them was in any state to listen.

Those last words — please accept my deepest condolences — seemed to hit a raw nerve. The old woman dropped to the floor, slapped her thigh, and started wailing at the top of her lungs.

"Quack doctors! This whole hospital is full of quacks! My son was perfectly fine when we brought him in, and now he's dead. You killed him. You people killed him!"

Abigail couldn't just stand there. She reached into her coat pocket, pulled out some tissues, and held them out to the old woman.

The old woman smacked her hand away.

Hard. Abigail's hand went red on the spot.

She pulled her hand back, wincing, and looked over at the middle-aged man standing nearby.

He was the patient's older brother. His hands were balled into tight fists, and the way he was staring at her — like he wanted to tear her apart.

"You quack. You killed him. Give me back my brother!"

Looking at his red-rimmed eyes, Abigail could only try to keep things calm.

"I know this is unbearable. But we truly did everything in our power for him."

The words felt hollow even as she said them.

If there was one thing she never wanted as a doctor, it was to lose a patient. She wanted to save every single one of them. But not everyone could be saved.

The man stared at her exhausted face, his jaw grinding. Then he raised his hand — broad as a paddle — and swung it straight at her.

Abigail ducked on instinct. Something cold and vicious flashed in his eyes.

He didn't stop. He shoved her — hard.

Her back slammed into the wall. Then she went down.

She hit the floor and broke into a coughing fit, and the whole situation spun out of control.

The old woman kept right on wailing, blaming her son's death on the hospital and on Abigail.

In the end, the hospital had no choice but to call the police.

A nurse knocked on the office door, saw Abigail's red-rimmed eyes, paused for a second, set a piece of bread on the desk, and quietly slipped out.

The door clicked shut. The silence that followed felt almost unreal.

Abigail sat in her chair, her back against the cold backrest, and realized she'd been shaking the whole time.

She looked down at the back of her hand. A few red scratches — from the old woman's nails.

The door opened. Trent stood in the doorway, suit jacket draped over his arm, tie crooked. He'd clearly rushed over.

Abigail blinked. "How did you—"

"Don't move." He was already crossing the room. He took the cotton swab from her hand, crouched down, and carefully disinfected the scratches on her hand.

The iodine stung for a moment. She flinched. He immediately eased up.

When he asked what happened, Abigail was quiet for a beat, then answered in a deliberately light tone.

"I got called in tonight for a patient who jumped from a building. His injuries were too severe — we couldn't save him. His family couldn't accept it, so things got out of hand."

She said it all so casually, no emotion in her voice. But hearing it, Trent felt a surge of anger rise in his chest.

He knew Abigail. He knew she would have given everything she had.

So many people died by suicide every year. Doctors already pushed themselves to the limit trying to save them. How could anyone expect every single one to make it?

"So they put their hands on you."

He wasn't hiding the anger in his voice. Abigail gave a small nod, then gently patted his head.

"I'm fine, really. It's just a few scratches."

Her tone was easy, but underneath it, there was no hiding the hurt.

"They lost their son. They couldn't accept it. I understand why they reacted that way."

"So you're just going to let it go?"

Trent couldn't swallow that.

Abigail had already had a tough night being called in for overtime at this hour, and then she'd run into this unreasonable family. She'd poured so much time and energy into it, yet got no appreciation at all.

"What else am I supposed to do?"

Abigail spread her hands with a tired shrug. "It's over. The police came and sorted things out. It should be fine."

She paused, then looked down at him.

"What about you, though? You rushed over at this hour — you didn't get any rest. Are you going to be okay for work tomorrow?"

Trent felt something warm settle in his chest as he met her eyes.