The Glass Rain

Clara sat cross-legged on her bed. Her fingers traced diagrams of the human eye. Cornea. Lens. Vitreous humor.

The world detonated.

Glass embedded in her cheek. A red streak ran down her forehead. She touched her face. Fingers came away red.

"Superficial lacerations," she murmured. "No arterial bleeding."

The hospital reeked of carbolic acid and blood. Shattered windows let in a howling wind. Charts scattered like leaves.

Dr. MacLennan barked orders. "Need a system, Doctor."

He used her title. She was only a student.

"Create one," he said.

She wiped blood from her eyes. Her mind sharpened.

Red for immediate surgery. Yellow for urgent care. Green for minor treatment.

Nurse Margaret Sutherland approached. Her leather notebook clicked against her hip.

"According to Protocol 7-B," she said. "We must process intake forms before treatment."

A child screamed. Glass protruded from both eyes.

"What would you have me do?" Clara asked.

"Follow protocol," Margaret said. "Or save this child?"

Clara’s hands trembled. She ripped a page from her textbook. Blood splattered the diagram.

She colored the page. Red. Yellow. Green.

"Let’s try this," she said.

The child’s wails filled the air.

"Steady," Thomas Brennan said.

He was leaning against the wall. His eyes were bandaged. His voice was a low rumble.

"Mary would say, 'Steady as ballast.'"

Clara blinked. Her vision swam.

"Thank you," she said.

She adjusted her glasses. They slipped. She caught them.

"Need a hand?" Thomas asked.

She looked at her hands. They were stained with blood.

"Maybe," she said.

Dr. MacLennan checked his pocket watch. His hands were wet.

"Twenty seconds," he said. "Scrubbing."

He turned to Clara. His voice was sharp. "You’re still with me?"

She nodded. Her vision blurred.

"Then let’s move," he said.

The child screamed again.

Clara’s heart pounded.

"Red," she said.

"Red," Thomas echoed.

They moved as one. The world became a blur of red and blood.