The Last Breath You Stole

It was the fourth day stranded in the unforgiving expanse of the Mojave backcountry when the rescue helicopter finally circled overhead. My mother, the chief medical officer leading the search and rescue team, stepped right past me. Her eyes didn't linger on my split, bleeding lips or the grey pallor of my skin. Instead, she rushed frantically toward my stepsister, whose cheeks were merely flushed from the dry heat. "Hurry!" my mother barked at the paramedics, waving them toward the transport cabin. "Shirley has a fragile constitution—this is an early sign of severe dehydration! Get her into the cabin on high-flow oxygen immediately!" One of the crew members hesitated, glancing down at me curled on the baked earth. My mother’s voice hardened into steel. "I am the team lead. There are cameras and witnesses out here. I will not have anyone claiming I abused my rank to prioritize my own biological daughter! Bridget is the older sister. She's athletic, her baseline is strong. She can wait for the ground convoy!" Desperation clawed at what little strength I had left. I reached out, my trembling hand latching onto the sleeve of my boyfriend, Connor, as he moved to climb aboard. "Connor... please," I choked out, my vocal cords scraping together like dry sandpaper. "I really... I can't hold on anymore..." He looked down at me, his brow furrowed in irritation. Then, one by one, he pried my cramping fingers off his cuff. "Bridget, you run half-marathons for fun," he snapped, exasperation dripping from his voice. "Shirley gets winded walking up a flight of stairs. Could you please stop competing with her for once when someone's life is actually on the line?" The heavy door slammed shut. The rotor blades roared to life, churning up a blinding wall of yellow grit that stung my eyes and coated my tongue as the machine lifted into the scorching blue sky. Connor had forgotten. On the very first afternoon, when our Jeep broke down, he took my hydration pack and handed it to Shirley. I had not had a single drop of water in four days. And my mother, a decorated trauma physician, had willfully ignored the telltale sign on the back of my hand: when she brushed past, the pinched skin stayed peaked, unable to snap back. It was the textbook marker of hypovolemic shock. Impending death. My vision dimmed around the edges. The hundred-and-ten-degree desert heat pressed down on my chest like lead, slowly swallowing me into the dirt. … When the ground rescue unit finally dragged me into the county hospital, night had long since fallen. In the emergency hallway, Shirley was resting comfortably on a gurney, a nasal cannula resting under her nose. Her eyes were lightly closed, an IV port taped neatly to the back of her pale hand. She looked frail, yet her lips were still soft and pink. My mother was perched on the edge of the mattress, clutching a stack of Shirley's lab printouts. When the nurses wheeled my stretcher through the double doors, she glanced up. "You made it," she said, her voice devoid of urgency. I parted my lips, but the air felt like crushed glass in my throat. "Mom... water. Please." The words triggered a violent spasm in my chest. I coughed, a ragged, retching sound, and a mouthful of pinkish, bloody foam bubbled past my lips, staining the collar of my torn shirt. I tried to lift an arm to wipe it away, but my limbs felt like dead weight. My eyeballs were so parched they burned in their sockets; just rolling my head toward her took every ounce of will I possessed. My mother’s brow knitted as she looked at the blood on my shirt. She turned to the attending nurse, raising her voice so the entire corridor could hear. "Do not overtreat her simply because she is my daughter. A little hemoptysis with dehydration is often just mucosal stress. Shirley had an elevated heart rate earlier—she is at risk of sudden cardiac arrest. Get Shirley on dopamine first!" The triage nurse stopped in her tracks, staring at my mother in disbelief. "Doctor, this patient's systolic blood pressure is barely seventy. Her pupillary response is sluggish." "She is an endurance runner. Her physiological tolerance is higher than average." My mother’s grip on Shirley’s charts tightened until the paper crinkled. "I ran this rescue. Every set of eyes in the county is watching this operation. We do not triage based on blood relations." She turned her gaze back to me, her tone cool and instructional. "Bridget, you have to understand. You are my daughter, which means you need to be more sensible than the rest. You cannot let people whisper that the rescue chief favored her own flesh and blood." Shirley stirred, her eyelids fluttering open. The moment she caught sight of me, her eyes pooled with tears. "Bridget... thank God. You're alive." Connor burst through the sliding doors from the parking lot. Without looking in my direction, he went straight to Shirley’s bedside, gently placing a hand against her forehead. "How are you feeling? Still dizzy?" Shirley shook her head weakly, her fingers curling into his sleeve. "I'm okay. How is Bridget? Is she... is she mad at me for taking the helicopter seat?" I stared at the acoustic tiles of the ceiling. The fluorescent tubes buzzed with an unbearable, blinding white light. Connor followed Shirley's gaze to my gurney, his jaw setting into a hard line. "Bridget, don't give her that look. The helicopter had a strict payload limit. Dr. Barrett made the tactical call." A burning ache tore through my windpipe. I opened my mouth twice, but only dry air escaped. A young nurse hurried over with a plastic cup of lukewarm water, gently slipping an arm behind my shoulders to prop me up. The rim of the cup had just brushed my cracked lips when my mother reached out, her fingers closing firmly around the nurse’s wrist. "Hold on," she commanded. The nurse stared at her, bewildered. My mother shoved Shirley’s paperwork into her leather bag. "Shirley needs her IV fluids hooked up first. Her pulse was racing a minute ago." The nurse glanced at the cardiac monitor lead taped to my collarbone. "Doctor, this patient is already presenting with profound hypovolemic shock." "She spent days under the desert sun. A skewed panel is expected." My mother paused, her chin lifting slightly. "She is my daughter. She can handle a little discomfort." The plastic cup was set down on Shirley’s bedside table. I watched the faint mist of condensation on the plastic wall slowly evaporate into the sterile air. I didn't have the breath left to fight. A moment later, the ER attending strode over, pulled back my sleeve, and pinched the skin over my wrist. "Capillary refill is practically nonexistent. Get her into the trauma bay right now." He tapped through my electronic chart on his tablet, his eyebrows shooting up. "Wait. Does she have a congenital bleeding disorder?" My mother’s face clouded with annoyance. "Her constitution is immaculate. I raised her; I know her chart. She’s fine." "Her history explicitly states she was monitored for internal hemorrhage risk after an abdominal impact last year." "A past incident does not dictate current status," my mother dismissed curtly, already turning her back to adjust Shirley’s blankets. "Finish Shirley’s full blood panel first." The attending ripped off his mask, his voice dropping into a harsh, furious gravel. "She is crashing into multi-organ shock, Doctor." My mother stiffened, but she did not step aside. "I am the regional search and rescue director." The attending pointed directly at the jagged, falling numbers on the monitor beside my head. "And with numbers like these, nobody in this hospital is taking the fall for you." The gurney was yanked away before my mother could reply. As the heavy blue curtain swung shut, I caught one last glimpse through the seam. Shirley was sitting up against her pillows. With both hands, she lifted the cup of water that had been meant for me, bringing it to her mouth, and drank it down, sip by quiet sip. When I opened my eyes again, an IV line was taped to the bruised crook of my elbow. A nurse was swapping an empty saline bag for a fresh one. I turned my head. Outside the small window, the sky had turned pitch-black. Through the cracked door of the observation room, my mother’s lowered voice carried in from the corridor. "Is she awake?" "She came to a few minutes ago." A beat of hesitation. "Did she... say anything about what happened out there?" The nurse’s movements paused. "The patient has been mostly comatose." My mother let out a quiet breath of relief. I let my eyelids slide shut. The heavy thud of work boots stopped just outside. Connor’s voice, hushed and strained: "Dr. Barrett, if Bridget brings up the water, let me handle it. I'll take the blame." Silence stretched between them. "You gave her water pack to Shirley?" my mother asked softly. "Shirley’s lips were completely white," Connor said, defensiveness creeping into his tone. "Her hands were shaking so badly she couldn't stand. Bridget was thirsty too, obviously, but she looked like she could handle it. So I handed it to Shirley." "Did Bridget see you?" "Yeah. She saw." The hallway fell dead quiet. I remembered that first evening. The Jeep’s rear axle had sunk into the sandbank, high-centered and dead. By the time our small group split up to find high ground, our shared supply was down to half a reservoir. Shirley had collapsed against a sandstone boulder, clutching her chest, gasping for air. Her face was pasty, her lips tinged with an ash-grey shade, her petite frame curled into a pathetic ball. Connor had knelt in front of her, unhooking my water bladder from my pack. I had reached out, my fingers trembling. "Connor, that’s mine." Shirley had immediately pushed it away with weak hands. "No, Connor, don't... Bridget needs it too." She said the words, but her wide, terrified eyes were glued to the plastic valve. Connor had shoved it straight into her lap. "Just drink it." I had stood under the blinding, unforgiving sun, my empty palms burning. My mother had been on the satellite radio a few yards away. Hearing the commotion, she had looked over, her voice carrying clear and flat: "Bridget, you have the stamina. Take care of your sister." On the second day, and the third, not a single drop was passed to me. Inside the room, the nurse adjusted the IV drip rate. "Your family is right outside. Do you want me to let them in?" I barely managed a faint shake of my head. Yet the door clicked open anyway. My mother walked in, having changed into a crisp, clean blouse. She tucked a loose strand of grey-streaked hair behind her ear, pulled over a vinyl chair, and sat down. "How are you feeling?" I kept my eyes fixed on the plastic tubing overhead. "The ER doctor said if I had arrived thirty minutes later, my kidneys and heart would have shut down completely." "Emergency doctors love theatrical diagnoses," she said smoothly, picking up my paper chart from the foot of the bed. "You need to do some soul-searching after this, Bridget. There was a well-marked, paved scenic route. You insisted on taking the rugged backcountry trail. Shirley never wanted to go; you pushed her into it." My fingertips twitched against the rough hospital blanket. The graduation trip had been Shirley's idea from the start. She was the one who had brought the printouts to my apartment, clutching them to her chest, whispering about how she wanted to see the desert sunrise before entering the real world. My mother had initially worried about her frail health, but Shirley had sobbed into her apron, crying about how she had spent her whole life being an invalid and a burden, and just once, she wanted to be brave. Connor had backed her up, pleading her case. In the end, my mother had pulled strings with the search and rescue dispatch to equip us with high-end satellite transponders. Out in the dunes, Shirley had taken the Garmin transponder from me twice, claiming she was terrified of losing it and that it was safer zipped into the inner lining of her daypack. And when our party was separated, she claimed the pack was left behind in the stranded Jeep. When I laid out the truth in dry, broken syllables, my mother’s scowl only deepened. "And now you're trying to shift the blame onto Shirley?" "I am stating what happened." "Bridget!" She slapped the chart onto the nightstand. "Shirley is already beside herself with guilt! She sat weeping in her bed, begging me to take her oxygen tank and bring it to you! What more do you want from her?" I stared at the woman who gave birth to me. The fierce, unyielding standard of 'fairness' she preached to the world... it was only ever enforced against me. The door creaked open again. Shirley walked in, dressed in hospital scrubs, carrying an insulated thermos. Her gait was remarkably steady. The moment she locked eyes with me, tears spilled down her cheeks. "Bridget... I'm so, so sorry." My mother immediately rose, taking the heavy thermos from her hands. "You just finished your IV drip. What are you doing out of bed?" Shirley looked at me with red-rimmed eyes. "I made some porridge for Bridget." She turned toward Connor, who had followed her in, her voice soft as velvet. "Bridget hasn't had food or water in days. A warm, sweet broth will coat her stomach." The lid of the thermos was loose. The cloying scent of dates and brown sugar wafted out—thick, sugary, and heavy. Any medical student knew that introducing concentrated sugar and starch to an acutely dehydrated, starved digestive tract could trigger refeeding syndrome or acute vomiting. My bruised knuckles ached with a dull throb. Connor stepped closer, his face tight. "Bridget, just eat a few bites. She spent an hour making it." His phone buzzed in his pocket. He glanced at the screen and stepped toward the window to take the call. Shirley scooped a steaming spoonful from the container, stepping right up to the edge of my mattress. "Here, let me feed you." Her hands were shaking conspicuously. I instinctively pulled back, but as I turned my head, the stainless-steel container in her hands tilted. A wave of scalding porridge splashed directly across the raw, sun-blistered skin on the back of my hand. A sharp, blinding agony ripped through my nerve endings. I gasped, curling my fingers as violent tremors shook my arm. Before a sound could leave my throat, Shirley let out a piercing shriek. "Bridget!" She dropped the thermos to the linoleum with a loud clatter and fell to her knees beside my bed, sobbing hysterically. "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!" She frantically grabbed a handful of scratchy paper towels, scrubbing violently over the scorched blisters on my skin. The rough paper tore at the raw flesh, sending white-hot lightning shooting up my entire arm. "My blood sugar dropped... my hands just gave out," she wailed, her forehead pressing against the bed frame as she refused to rise. "I'm such a useless burden... I can't even feed my own sister without ruining everything!" My mother bolted across the room, wrapping her arms around Shirley's trembling shoulders. "Get up, Shirley! You just came out of shock, why are you kneeling on the floor?" Shirley shook her head violently, tears drenching her face. "I burned her! I hurt Bridget! She must hate me!" I looked down at the bright red, blistering flesh of my hand. I couldn't say a single word. Connor hung up the phone and rushed back, taking in the scene of Shirley weeping on the floor. His face darkened instantly. "Bridget, it was an accident! Did you really have to scream at her?" My mother pulled Shirley to her feet, her gaze toward me turning glacial. "She dragged herself out of bed out of the goodness of her heart to bring you food, and look at her—she's terrified of you. Can't you show a shred of grace to your sister?" I slowly closed my eyes and turned my face toward the cold, blank wall. On the third morning, the attending physician cornered my mother right outside the door, his voice ringing with fury. "She has to be transferred to the university medical center in the city immediately! Her acute kidney injury is deteriorating by the hour!" My mother didn't give an inch. "I used my personal connections to secure the single open bed in their critical care pavilion, and I've already slated Shirley for it so she can undergo a comprehensive cardiac and neurological workup." She glanced dismissively through the window at me. "Bridget’s vitals have stabilized. We keep her here for observation." "That is utter madness!" the doctor barked, dropping all professional decorum. "Her so-called stability is artificially propped up by vasopressors and high-volume fluids! She could slip into vascular collapse at any second! She needs a tertiary care facility today!" He leaned in, his voice shaking with restrained rage. "And your other daughter’s charts are practically spotless! She does not need a comprehensive inpatient workup!" My mother’s jaw set into stone. "Shirley experienced severe emotional trauma." I lay in the bed, listening to every syllable. Connor sat in the vinyl chair beside me, peeling a red apple with a small pocketknife. A curling strip of peel snapped and dropped into the wastebasket. "Your mom is just worried about you," he murmured without looking up. "She's worried about Shirley." The knife stilled in his hands. "Don't be bitter, Bridget." I looked at him quietly, my voice a hollow rasp. "You took my water and handed it to her. You watched them lift her into the chopper. And when I grabbed you, begging for my life... you peeled my fingers off." The color drained from Connor's face. "It was chaos out there," he stammered. "Whose emergency was worse, Connor?" He set the half-peeled apple onto the nightstand. "Shirley has been fragile her whole life. And for God's sake, she’s your sister." "She is not my sister." "Can you stop splitting hairs?" he snapped, his voice rising enough to draw glances from the corridor. Catching himself, he reached out, trying to place a comforting hand over mine. I pulled my arm back beneath the sheet. Connor’s hand hung frozen in the empty air. "Bridget, I've been losing my mind too," he whispered, a tremor in his throat. "I searched for you out there. The second the chopper landed, I begged your mom to send the ground unit back out." "And then?" I asked, my voice terrifyingly calm. "Then you walked into the ER, held Shirley's hand, and waited outside her exam room?" His mouth snapped shut. He didn't deny it. That afternoon, the charge nurse came in with the transfer paperwork. My mother didn't come in herself. She sent Connor to hand me a single printed sheet. "Sign it," he said softly. It was a formal liability waiver, stating that I voluntarily relinquished priority emergency transport and held the regional search and rescue team harmless for all medical triage decisions made during the backcountry evacuation. The signature line at the bottom was blank. I looked up at Connor. "She drafted this?" "Your mother is worried that once you're discharged, your emotions will get the better of you and you'll go to the press. It would destroy the rescue team's reputation." "If I die," I murmured, "that would hurt her reputation too, wouldn't it?" Connor snatched the paper back, his knuckles white. "Stop using that word!" A bitter curve touched my lips. "Does it make you uncomfortable?" He crumpled the paper into a tight ball. "I'll talk to her." Ten minutes later, my mother walked into the room herself. She slapped a different form down onto my blanket. "This is the inter-facility transport consent," she said briskly. "Sign it. We leave at first light." I looked at the document. "Is Shirley going too?" "She needs a specialist follow-up." "Does the transport van have critical care equipment?" "Yes." "Do I get the stretcher?" My mother looked down at me, a profound, bone-deep exhaustion pooling beneath her eyes. "Why must everything be a competition with you?" I looked away. She let out a heavy sigh, running a hand through her hair. "Look... I admit the helicopter arrangement wasn't ideal for you. But I was the incident commander on site. I could not put my biological daughter ahead of everyone else. You need to understand the position I was in." I turned my head and looked straight into her eyes. "Then what about Shirley?" She blinked, momentarily caught off guard, before averting her gaze. "She is my daughter too." "She is the daughter your late husband brought into the marriage." "She has called me 'Mom' for ten years!" A dry, cracked laugh escaped my chest. "And I called you Mom for twenty-two." My mother’s face went entirely bloodless. She let out a shaky breath and thrust a ballpoint pen into my fingers. "Just sign the form." I opened my hand. The pen slipped through my fingers and clicked against the floorboards. As she bent down to retrieve it, Shirley appeared in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe, tears streaming down her pale cheeks. "Mom... don't push her," Shirley choked out softly. "If Bridget doesn't want me there, I won't go to the city hospital. I can stay here." My mother snapped straight up, rushing over to support her. "You haven't even recovered yet! Stop talking nonsense!" Shirley lowered her head, sniffling. From my bed, I caught a glimpse of her hospital bracelet peeking out from beneath her sleeve. Printed across the plastic band were the doctor’s discharge notes: "Vitals stable. Discharge to outpatient care recommended." She had been cleared to go home hours ago. My mother simply refused to let her leave her sight. The county hospital's transport van was idling by the loading dock. When the orderly wheeled me out, Shirley was already settled comfortably inside, occupying the only fully reclined, cushioned medical stretcher near the rear doors. Connor was sitting on the bench beside her, gently rubbing her shoulder. My mother stood by the open side door, barking orders as two paramedics loaded oxygen cylinders and monitoring kits. I was hoisted into the cabin and strapped onto a rigid, forward-facing jump seat. With no lumbar support, every small shift in weight sent a shockwave of agony through my bruised torso and dehydrated muscles. The accompanying paramedic frowned. "Doctor, this patient is in precarious condition. She cannot handle an upright seat on a mountain road." "It's a two-hour transit," my mother said without looking back. "The mountain pass is full of potholes. She shouldn't be jostled like this." "Shirley gets violent motion sickness if she sits upright," my mother cut in, her tone brooking no argument. The paramedic opened his mouth to protest, but my mother held up a hand, cutting him off cold. "I am the medical director of this transport. The clinical responsibility is entirely mine. Now close the doors." The heavy metal doors slammed shut. Less than twenty minutes onto the winding highway, Shirley curled into a ball, dry-heaving into a paper bag. Connor panicked instantly, reaching for the oxygen mask hanging from the ceiling. The paramedic checked the pulse oximeter clipped to Shirley's finger. "Her O2 saturation is ninety-nine percent. Just crack the window and let some fresh air circulate." Shirley reached out blindly, clutching Connor's jacket with trembling hands. "I... I can't catch my breath... my chest is squeezing..." Without a word of consultation, my mother reached across the narrow aisle, unclipped the oxygen line from my nasal cannula, and moved to attach it to Shirley’s face. My lungs violently seized. The paramedic lunged forward, grabbing my mother's arm. "What are you doing? You cannot interrupt her flow! Her baseline is failing!" My mother shoved his hands away with clinical authority. "The primary tank is running low. Shirley is hyperventilating; she needs it more." "There is a secondary tank in the floor locker!" the paramedic yelled, dropping to his knees to twist the brass valve on the backup cylinder. Just then, the van slammed through a deep washboard rut in the asphalt. A sharp, metallic hiss exploded inside the cabinet, followed by a sickening snap. The paramedic’s face turned ghostly white. "The regulator valve cracked on the impact! It won't open! This is the only working tank we have!" My mother looked down at me. For a split second, her fingers tightened. "Prioritize Shirley," she ordered coldly. "Her acute respiratory distress is more urgent." The paramedic pointed a shaking finger at the portable monitor strapped beside my seat. "Her saturation is dropping through the floor! If you leave her off oxygen on this grade, she is going to die!" My mother’s voice turned into pure ice. "I am the senior medical authority in this vehicle. You will follow protocol and execute my orders." The paramedic’s hands shook with unbridled fury. "You are unfit to be a medical director. And you are completely unfit to be a mother!" The cabin went dead silent. My mother’s eyes blazed as she pointed a finger at him. "Say that again." "I said your twisted idea of 'fairness' is going to get your daughter killed!" I sat strapped to the hard plastic seat, my jaw working uselessly as I dragged in desperate, ragged gasps. A coppery, metallic taste flooded the back of my mouth. Every single inhalation felt like someone was dragging a serrated blade across the lining of my lungs. Suddenly, Shirley clutched at her throat, her face flushing a mottled, alarming red. "Mom... I can't... I can't breathe..." She squeezed her eyes shut, holding her breath until the veins on her temples bulged. Connor lost his mind. "Dr. Barrett! Look at her! Something is wrong!" My mother threw herself over the stretcher, frantically adjusting the mask over Shirley’s nose and mouth. But Shirley kept writhing, gasping theatrically, her fingernails digging deep into the vinyl mattress. My mother spun around, locking her eyes onto me. When she reached out to rip the mask off my face, her knuckles brushed against my cheek. My skin was icy cold. Clammy. She froze for a fraction of a heartbeat. Then Shirley let out another sharp, strangled wheeze from the stretcher. Without another second of hesitation, my mother wrenched the plastic away from my lips and strapped it back onto Shirley. "Bridget, you are the daughter of a search and rescue director," my mother spat, her voice tight and defensive. "Set an example. You are an adult—grow up and show some maturity!" Terror and survival surged through my dying veins. With the very last drop of adrenaline left in my broken body, I lunged forward. My fingernails scraped across the back of my mother’s hand, tearing through flesh and leaving four jagged, bloody welts. Her eyes widened in anger, but she held the mask firmly down over Shirley’s face, refusing to let go. I turned my desperate gaze to Connor. I reached out, my trembling, blood-stained fingers clutching his wrist with an iron grip born of sheer panic. He stared down at my pale, hollow face. I couldn't form words anymore. I could only look into his eyes, begging him to see me. Begging him to let me live. Shirley’s muffled sobs echoed from behind the plastic mask. "Bridget... please, take it back... I'll give it to you..." She made a show of reaching for the straps, her movements slow, performative, and weak. My mother caught Shirley’s wrist instantly. "Don't you dare touch it!" Connor stared down at my knuckles, bleached white from the strain. His Adam’s apple bobbed once, twice. Then, looking me straight in the eyes, he peeled my fingers off his wrist, one by agonizing one. "Bridget," he whispered, his voice cracking with guilt and irritation. "Stop torturing her." My limp arm fell, crashing against the metal armrest. The van tires hit another violent crater in the mountain pass. The back of my head slammed hard against the reinforced steel chassis, and the world dissolved into a blinding white flash, followed by absolute darkness. "Code blue!" the paramedic screamed, throwing himself across the aisle. "She's in cardiac arrest! Pull the van over! Stop the damn van!" My mother finally turned around. My chest was completely still. The paramedic ripped open my blood-soaked flannel shirt, pressing hard against the lower right quadrant of my abdomen. The massive, purplish-black contusion from where I had fallen against the rocks in the desert had spread across my entire flank. The moment his palms pressed down, a thick wave of dark, acidic blood erupted from my mouth and nose. "Massive internal hemorrhage!" the paramedic roared. "The shock ruptured the mesenteric vessels!" My mother scrambled off Shirley's stretcher, dropping to her knees on the dirty floorboard to begin chest compressions. The first heavy downward thrust forced another geyser of dark blood from my throat, splattering across my mother’s pristine collar, spraying across her cheeks and into her hair. She froze, staring at the warm, dark crimson covering her palms. Her hand shook violently as she reached up to press two trembling fingers against the carotid artery in my neck. "Bridget..." Her voice broke, climbing into an unnatural, high-pitched shriek. "Bridget, open your eyes! Look at Mom! Mom is giving you the oxygen! Look, it's right here!" She fumbled wildly, trying to tear the mask off Shirley and jam it onto my bloody face. Connor dropped to his knees in the aisle, his face pale as chalk, his voice reduced to a dry, broken sob. "Bridget... Bridget, please..." The only answer that came was the high, piercing, continuous wail of the cardiac monitor. The jagged, desperate rhythm of my heart twitched one final time on the glowing green screen—and flattened into a silent, unbroken line.