**December 24th, 1963**

The beeping of the heart monitor filled the room, each pulse louder than the last, like a drumbeat that couldn’t be ignored. I stood by the bed, syringe in hand, my breath shallow, my heart racing. The patient’s condition had deteriorated so quickly—one moment they were stable, the next, it felt like everything was slipping through my fingers. The seconds were slipping by too fast. Every decision felt heavier than the last, and my hands, though steady, betrayed the chaos in my mind. Was I doing the right thing? Was this the right dose? The weight of my responsibility pressed down on me, thick and suffocating. A single misstep, just one, and everything could change in an instant.

I glanced down at the syringe, then at the monitor again. It was now or never.

I’ve done this before. I’ve been trained for this. I know the steps. Two doses. I’ve handled much worse, much scarier situations than this. But as I pushed the plunger, three words stormed through my mind, one after another.

Syringe.

Heartbeat.

Lost.

Syringe.

Heartbeat.

Lost.

They came crashing in, one after another, a wave of fear and doubt. Like a tsunami after an earthquake, they followed me. Every thought seemed to spiral into those three words, making the world around me spin out of control. The sound of the monitor’s beeping seemed louder now, sharper. My breath caught in my throat, and my pulse raced. Was it too late? Had I missed my chance? Was this the moment I’d feared?

Time seemed to stretch on, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was running out of it.

And then, like a miracle, the seconds started to fade back into time. The steady beep of the monitor, once erratic and tense, began to steady. The rhythm slowed, softened. Each pulse, a small victory. Each breath, a silent prayer answered. I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until the weight in my chest began to lift.

The patient’s color returned, their breaths deepened, became a little more certain. I let out a long exhale, my legs feeling weak as I leaned against the wall. It wasn’t over, not yet, but for now, I had won. The storm had passed.

Looking down at them, I couldn’t help but smile, a soft tug at my lips. Those words, haunting as they were, didn’t become a prophecy today. They stayed in my mind, a reminder of how fragile life is, but in this moment, I knew. I knew that I had done everything I could. My training. My heart. It made a difference.

For now, that’s enough.