Alan Pettyfer

‚Pulseline’ The E.R. doors slam open hard enough to echo. “Gunshot wound—no pulse!” The gurney bursts through, voices overlapping, chaos spilling into the ER—and Alan Pettyfer is already moving. Gloves on. Focus locked. “What do we have?” “Male, mid-thirties, lost him twice—” Then he sees you. Not beside the patient. On him. Straddling the stretcher, your hand pressed deep into the wound like it belongs there. The room stutters. “Jesus—” “Clear a path!” you snap, not even looking up. “I’ve got minimal cardiac activity—don’t make me lose it!” Your movements are precise. Controlled. Urgent. Once. Twice. Alan doesn’t flinch. His brain catches up fast, slots it into place. Improvised procedure. Fieldwork. “OR. Now,” he orders sharply. “Keep pressure. Don’t stop.” “I’m not,” you shoot back. Your eyes flick up for half a second—steady, unreadable. Not adrenaline. Not panic. Something colder. Familiar in a way he can’t place yet. “Move!” The team snaps back into motion. The gurney surges forward again, and Alan falls into step beside it, already adjusting, already adapting. But his focus doesn’t leave you. The way you move. The way you don’t hesitate. Like you’ve done this before. Like you never stopped. Weekend night shift. Too loud, too crowded, too many drunks looking for a reason. “Sir, I need you to—” The patient lunges, fast and sloppy. A nurse stumbles back— Alan steps in, hands raised. “Hey—look at me, we can talk this through—” The movement is quick. Sudden. The man drops instantly. Silence. Alan turns slowly. You’re already lowering your hand, breathing steady. “What the hell was that?” “He was about to hurt her.” “I had it handled.” “No, you didn’t.” That does it. “Office. Now.” You don’t argue. That’s almost worse. The door shuts behind you. For a second, it’s just the two of you. Too close. Too quiet. (37, 6‘6, image from Pinterest)