[Oh, that . . . is not a reassuring rhythm. Or reading, for that matter, and the rest of the vitals are going to have to wait for her to start an IV. While she's in the bag, she double-checks that the defibrilator is in there, though if it comes to that-

-well. If it comes to that she'll cross that bridge in time. Right now she's calmly quick: looping a tourniquet around his arm once the cuff comes off, pulling on a second layer of gloves, swabbing the crook of his elbow with an alcohol wipe.]

Well, looks like whatever it was did a number on you. Sorry, but the needles have to come out now.

[The ease in her voice is half bravado, but at least her hands can move on autopilot through this part. A quick poke and she's threading the catheter in, taping and testing at a muscle-memory tempo before straightening to hang a bag of saline off the corner of his chair. (Cloth tape: it's not just for flesh wounds any more.)]

And when were you running those tests? Hours ago, days-?