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Flynn’s world blurred as voices reached him through the haze of pain. “…haemorrhaging… surgery… immediately!” A sharp, commanding voice cut through. Could it be Becky? Impossible. Yet there she was—furious, fearless, and somehow in charge. “I’m a fully qualified surgeon,” she snapped at a nervous orderly. “This man has shrapnel wounds, and he is not going to die on my watch!” Flynn forced his eyes open. It was Becky—her blonde hair pinned under a surgeon’s cap, freckles stark against her pale face. She turned, her sharp tone softening as her eyes met his. “Hello, there,” she said, brushing his hair back from his forehead. Flynn’s chest felt crushed under the weight of his injuries, his uniform soaked with blood. Becky gripped his hand fiercely. “You are going to be all right,” she said. “I’m going to stop the bleeding, and you’re going to be fine.” A rubber mask descended over his face, the world sliding to black. But Flynn had one thought above all: Becky, scared for him. Becky, fighting to save his life. When he gasped, “Tell Mr. Holmes…” she cut him off. “Don’t you dare make final speeches! You can tell him yourself.”