The forward triage point was chaos arranged into rough lines — tarps laid over gravel, medics kneeling in the dirt, a NATO logistics officer barking instructions into a radio as if volume alone could manufacture control.
She staggered into the perimeter and lowered the wounded soldier onto a stretcher.
Two medics descended immediately.
Relief flickered in her chest.
They never looked at her face.
They never asked her name.
They stripped the soldier from her grip and rushed him toward the treatment line reserved for “critical combatants.” Rowan swayed where she stood, blood soaking steadily through her tactical shirt beneath her vest.
“I need—” she began.
A medic glanced at her, eyes darting quickly over her body — upright, conscious, female — and made a decision.
“You’re ambulatory,” he said sharply. “Move behind the vehicle. We’re swamped.”
