A week later, I'm woken up in the middle of the night by someone roughly shaking my shoulder.
"Nicole, get up," Kent says frantically, shaking me relentlessly. "Hurry. It's Ty."
I snap to attention immediately, throwing off my covers and scrambling for my robe, years of medical training having honed me to be instantly alert under these circumstances.
"What is it?" I ask. I scrape my tousled hair back from my face and secure it with a band, then tuck a headband on top to keep any stray hairs out of my face.
"He's been shot," Kent says, his breathing ragged. I realize suddenly that Kent is crying, "Oh, my god, Nick, there's so much blood. I wanted to take him to the hospital, but I'm afraid that if I do–"
"No, I understand," I say. This has been a source of conflict between Kent and me
