Half an hour later, Dr. Bailey, having finished arranging care for her other patients, walked past the room and stopped in her tracks, surprised.
"Huh? They're still trying to save him?"
"Because he still has a chance to live," Adam replied, continuing chest compressions.
"Another unit of epinephrine!" he called out.
"Yes, Doctor," the nurse responded, quickly injecting the dying patient.
"How long has this been going on?" Dr. Bailey asked, glancing at Adam. She could sense something emotional in his movements as she stepped forward to check the patient herself.
"Dr. Duncan's been at it for 34 minutes," the nurse replied, checking the time.
"How many rounds of epinephrine and atropine have you given?" Dr. Bailey pressed.
"This is the third round," the nurse said, casting a quick look at Adam.
"Dr. Duncan, stop," Dr. Bailey said, shaking her head.
In the standard protocol, if one round of meds didn't work, you declared the patient dead right then and there. Anything more was just a waste of resources.
"He's still got a shot," Adam insisted, still pressing down rhythmically as he looked at Dr. Bailey. "You said it yourself—only when we say he's done is he really done."
"Do you know him?" Dr. Bailey asked, frowning slightly.
"No," Adam shook his head. "But I want to save him."
He knew what Dr. Bailey was getting at. If this were a friend or family member of a staffer, bending the rules and burning through resources like this would be quietly tolerated. They wouldn't give up until the very last second.
Three rounds of meds? That's for regular families. But if it were someone important—or their loved ones—it wouldn't matter if it took six rounds, ten, or even twenty. As long as there was hope and no one was ready to throw in the towel, they'd keep going.
How else did Adam come across that four-hour resuscitation record? Ordinary people didn't even get a chance to be part of something like that!
And why did Leonard pretend not to notice Adam cozying up to him, even playing along happily? Simple—Rachel and her three daughters were a handful, and not one of them had any interest in medicine or taking over his network of connections.
Think about it: in a situation like this, whether you're one of the hospital's own makes the difference between life and death! Leonard, fully aware of this, was tearing his heart out for his girls.
"He's your patient, Dr. Duncan. It's your call," Dr. Bailey said after a pause, giving Adam a look before heading out.
She didn't push back any further. Truth be told, if she didn't have a stack of surgeries waiting for her, she'd probably have stayed to help Adam see it through to the end—a doctor's final duty.
She'd had moments like this herself once. A sudden pang of emotion, a desperate need to save a patient she didn't even know, despite everyone telling her to let go. Protocol said to give up, but she wouldn't. Couldn't.
Over time, after seeing so much life and death, that spark had faded, nearly vanished. But watching Adam now—this familiar scene—stirred something in her. That last "Dr. Duncan" she called out was her quiet way of saying she finally saw him as the real deal.
An hour later.
"Still going?"
"Still going! It's been 98 minutes straight."
"Dr. Duncan hasn't stopped for a second."
"They should've called it ages ago. This is just wasting resources."
"Yeah, what, does he think he's God's eldest son, the savior of the world or something?"
"Or maybe he's just showing off his stamina?"
Word of Adam's ongoing efforts spread through the hospital like wildfire. Most people were whispering about it in corners.
"My husband Bob's a great driver," the crash victim's wife said from her hospital bed, rambling on as Cristina examined her. "This pickup cut us off. He saw something in the road and tried to swerve—it all happened so fast. We were having such a perfect morning, and then, just like that…"
Cristina didn't even bother responding.
"How's my husband Bob doing?" the woman asked for the umpteenth time.
"He's in surgery," Cristina said flatly, her face blank.
"You've got a problem with me?" the woman pressed.
"No," Cristina replied. "I just wish you'd stop with the stories and rest. I'm not a cop."
"What's that supposed to mean? Everything I said is true—you don't believe me?" The woman's voice rose.
"It's the police's job to figure out the truth," Cristina said, still expressionless. "But no, I don't buy it. Your son next door told a completely different story."
"What did Scotty say?" the woman asked, suddenly tense.
"He said you two fought over breakfast. Your husband was in a rotten mood, blew through three red lights on the highway, got passed by someone, lost his temper, and started chasing them down. It wasn't about dodging something in the road—he was trying to ram the car in front of him. They kept evading, but when he finally caught up, he yelled and slammed right into them."
Cristina gave a cold laugh. "Now the guy he hit is basically dead. And you—those injuries on your back, your collarbone, humerus, third and fourth ribs—all those healed fractures? Plus that big yellow bruise over your kidney and the hematoma around it? No way that's from 'just now' in the crash or 'falling last week' like you claimed. The evidence is crystal clear. The truth is right there—you can't just spin a story and make it go away. Your son says your husband had it coming. That he abused you. Right?"
"No!" the woman cried out in despair. "It's not like that!"
"He's been hurting you for years, killed someone today, and nearly got you and your son killed too. Why are you still defending him?" Cristina asked, genuinely baffled.
"Doctor, have you ever been in love?" the woman shot back instead of answering.
Cristina froze for a second.
Seeing her reaction, the woman perked up, tilting her head. "Have you ever loved someone?" Her expression screamed, If you had, you wouldn't ask that.
Cristina sighed inwardly. Pitiful people always have something hateworthy about them. "Love has its limits," she said, her face still a mask.
The woman fell silent. Clearly, her love for her abusive husband hadn't quite crossed into no-limits territory.
Back in the room, Adam's resuscitation efforts pressed on.
Cristina, Meredith, George, and Izzie, done with their own tasks, wandered over one by one.
"I've never seen him like this," Izzie said, marveling.
"This is his moment," Meredith murmured.
"He's trying to pull off a miracle," Cristina said, her tone detached. "But miracles are miracles because they're not supposed to happen."
"I hope Adam makes it happen," George said. "Someday, we might need a miracle too."
"There's a heartbeat!" the nurse shouted, staring at the monitor as the numbers jumped from zero and kept climbing.
The crowd watching erupted in gasps and chatter.
A miracle had descended.