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Security lowered their weapons. Nurses stared. The surgeon blinked as if he didn’t trust what he’d seen.
Ava rose and stepped back. “You can work,” she said calmly. “He’ll let you.”
They cut away the shredded uniform, exposing jagged shrapnel wounds across the SEAL’s side. Blood bloomed across the sheets. Someone swore. The monitor dipped, then dipped again.
“Pressure’s falling.”
“Clamp. Suction. Move.”
The dog remained at the SEAL’s side, eyes tracking every hand but no longer threatening. A living lock that had been opened with a whisper.
Ava stood against the wall, hands loosely clasped, watching the work with an unnerving stillness. Not detached. Focused. The kind of calm that comes from repetition, not luck.
A surgeon glanced at her mid-suture. “What did you say to that dog?”
Ava didn’t look away from the table. “Something they don’t teach in colleges.”
The SEAL’s heart rhythm wobbled. The room tightened. A defibrillator charged, paddles pressed down, shock delivered. The dog flinched but didn’t move. Another shock. The rhythm steadied just enough to keep him alive.
“Left side,” she said. “He’s bleeding internally. You’re missing it.”
The surgeon snapped his head around. “How do you—”
“Check,” she said, sharper now.
They did. She was right. The room changed after that. Fewer dismissive looks. Fewer casual assumptions. They stabilized the SEAL, barely, and rushed him into recovery.
The dog followed the gurney like a shadow.
A doctor approached Ava in the hall afterward, speaking carefully, like he wasn’t sure who she was anymore. “You don’t look like animal control,” he said. “And you don’t sound like a nurse on her first year.”
“I am a nurse,” Ava replied. “That’s enough.”
A low thudding vibration rolled through the hospital, rattling windows and making ceiling tiles hum. Another thud followed, closer, heavier. Rotor blades. A helicopter, landing hard without the courtesy of clearance.
A security guard ran into the corridor, pale. “Navy bird on the roof. No request. No warning.”
The lead surgeon frowned. “For who?”
No one answered, but Ava’s jaw tightened. She knew that sound. She knew what it meant when a military helicopter arrived without asking.
Minutes later, the elevator doors opened and four men stepped out. No visible weapons. No loud voices. No insignia. Just the quiet certainty of people used to being obeyed.
The tallest one scanned the hallway once, taking in the blood, the shaken staff, the security presence. His gaze landed on the K-9, sitting beside the recovery gurney, aligned perfectly with the SEAL’s body like he’d been trained to guard that exact space.
The man stopped.
“Where is she?” he asked.
The surgeon stiffened. “Restricted area—”
“We know,” the man said, not slowing. “The nurse. The one who spoke to the dog.”
Ava stood near the station, half in shadow, pretending to finish charting. She’d felt the shift the moment the elevator opened. The air had changed. The way it always did when people from her past walked into her present.
A nurse pointed. “Her.”
The man approached Ava and froze, a fraction of a second too long. Then he straightened and raised his hand in a full, hard SEAL salute.
Conversation died instantly.
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