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It isn’t looking good.
It isn’t looking good, and Buck knows it.
His leg aches in sympathy—phantom pain pulsing where it shouldn’t. At least Lori’s unconscious now, spared from feeling the crushing weight pinning her.
“It’s not budging! The water’s filling up fast!” Eddie shouts over the roar. “She’s not gonna last until USAR gets here. No one’s coming, Cap — the only way out for her is if we amputate.”
“No, no!” Chimney exhales sharply. “There has to be another way. Bobby would find another way.”
Buck feels numb. Every nerve under his skin hums like static.
“We’d need something stronger than the press,” he says, voice hollow—like someone else is speaking through him. “And the water’s not draining.”
“Shit.” Chim runs a tired hand over his face. “Ravi, go back to the hospital. See if you can find a trauma surgeon. While we wait, we pray for a miracle or some backup.”
“On it, Cap!” Ravi takes off running.
They wait, every second tightening the air around them. Eddie crouches beside Lori, fingers pressed to her neck. Her pulse is thready; the color’s leaving her face. Her body’s already shutting down.
“Cap, the hospital’s a mess,” Ravi’s voice crackles through the radio. “No trauma surgeon available. Two hours, maybe one if we’re lucky.”
“She doesn’t have that kind of time, she is already decompensating.” Eddie says. “I can do it. You don’t leave Afghanistan as a medic without knowing how to handle a field amputation.”
Chimney’s jaw tightens. He hates this. Every instinct in him screams to wait, to hope—but there’s no time left for that.
“No,” he says finally, voice heavy. “If it’s happening, I’m doing it. I’m interim captain. This decision’s mine.”
Buck looks up, startled. “Chim—”
“I need you on stabilization,” Chim cuts in, tone all command now. “Eddie, check the tourniquet. Ravi, get back here with blood bags and morphine. I’m going up top to talk to Cal.”
Buck stands there, feeling useless. There's nothing he can do and memories of being under the engine threaten to spill over.
“Talk to me about what?” Cal calls, stumbling into the train car with Henry right behind.
“I told you both to stay up top,” Chim says sharply. “Henry, get him out of here.”
“I tried to stop him,” Henry says, breathless.
“I can’t leave her,” Cal says, voice cracking. “I have to be here—for whatever happens.”
Chim takes a slow breath, grounding himself before meeting Cal’s eyes. “There are no good options right now. The flooding’s getting worse, and we don’t have backup coming. Lori’s best chance is if we amputate.”
“What?” Cal’s voice breaks.
“I need your permission to make that call,” Chim says gently. “We’re running out of time.”
“I… I can’t make that choice.” Cal stammers, “There has to be another way.”
“I wish there was, Cal.” Eddie tries, “Helps hours away. She doesn't have that, she's going into organ failure.”
“I- I can't make that choice. She is going to hate me.” Cal rambles through tears, “Her life is going to be forever changed.”
“It already is.” Buck says, it's quiet. Too quiet for anyone to fully hear.
“What?” Cal asks, not able to hear Buck.
Buck levels his eyes with Cal, and clears his throat and speaks louder. “Her life. It already is forever changed. Her life changed the second this concrete slab crushed her leg.”
“What do you mean?” Cal asks. “Her leg’s effectively crushed. I’m not a paramedic by any means,” Buck says, voice low but sure, “but I’ve seen enough scenes like this to know what happens if we wait.”
Cal shakes his head, trembling. “There has to be another way—there has to be.”
“There isn’t,” Buck says quietly. “The only choice left is between her life… or her leg.”
Cal’s breath catches. “You don’t understand—she’ll never forgive me.”
Buck looks at him for a long moment, the rushing water filling the space between them. Then, quietly, he says, “Yeah, I do. More than you think.”
He glances down, hand brushing unconsciously against his thigh. “A few years ago, I was trapped under a fire engine after a bombing. It crushed my leg. They fought like hell to save it, and they did. I got to keep it.” He swallows, voice roughening“But sometimes I wonder if it was worth it,” Buck admits, his voice quieter now, almost lost under the sound of rushing water. “The pain, the recovery… some days it’s so bad it takes everything in me just to get out of bed. I don’t take it for granted, but there are days I think losing it might’ve been easier than living with what it took to keep it.”
Cal’s breathing grows ragged, eyes glistening.
Behind him, Chim and Eddie exchange a brief glance—silent, heavy. Neither says a word.
Buck doesn’t notice. His focus stays locked on Cal. “I may be a firefighter again. I may run calls and climb ladders and act like everything’s fine—but it’s not. That leg still reminds me, every damn day, of what happened. Some days the pain hits so hard it feels like I’m right back under that engine. But I get up. I keep going. Because I can. Because I get to.”
He swallows, voice thickening. “She deserves that chance too. She can hate you for what you did. She can cry, scream, break things. But she can’t do any of that if she’s gone. You save her life, Cal. Everything else… you figure out later.”
Cal’s face crumples, the fight draining out of him. His gaze flicks toward Lori—pale, barely conscious, the water creeping higher around her.
His voice breaks. “Do it.”
Chim nods once, no hesitation, moving into position. Eddie’s already there, steadying Lori’s shoulder, his jaw set.
They pass off Lori to be loaded into the ambulance, and the crew watches as they send her off.
All of them exhausted and haunted by what had to be done.
Buck feels like he’s been carved out—like pumpkin guts scooped clean, nothing left but the shell. The air feels too thin, too heavy, all at once.
And just as he always has done, Buck charges on. He's the first one to move from the spot, and between the aching reminder of being crushed and the various ways he was straining trying to shift the concrete, a stabbing pain charges up his leg and radiates.
He bites his lip and breathes through it. He's his it for so long that he can steel his face and make the limp barely noticeable. He pulls himself into the seat, and the others follow not to far behind.
It's silent for half the ride to the station.
Then Eddie’s voice crackles through the headset—quiet and careful.
“You never say anything about the pain. How it still bothers you.”
For a long moment, Buck doesn’t answer. The road hums beneath them.
Finally, he exhales. “What’s there to say?” he asks softly. “It’s always there. Talking about it doesn’t make it hurt less.”
Eddie’s voice comes back, low but steady. “Doesn’t mean you carry it alone, either.”
Buck stares out the window, the city lights streaking past in blurred ribbons of color. His throat works, but no words come.
Without saying anything, Eddie reaches over, tugging gently until Buck leans into him. Buck lets himself fold, just slightly, into the warmth. Eddie’s hand finds his hair—messy, damp with sweat and concrete dust—and runs through it slowly, grounding him.