Don’t you hate it when you stump yourself with your own prompt? Anyway, better late than never.
They were a precision team, designed to tackle the most devastating obstacles and escort their charges safely to the other side. They were battle hardened and weary from being on their feet since dawn, but these things never asked whether you were tired. They never asked whether you needed a break. They came whenever they decided, and the harder they made life for you, the better.
It was the men they were escorting through this ordeal that fared the worst. Concussions, broken bones (noses and hands were common), psychological trauma that even the most savvy PTSD therapist had trouble cracking. The women were eventually fine. Most of them. But it was hard.
And another case just slammed through the door, screaming, blood dripping from the husband’s nose. “I didn’t know what to do, what should I do?”
The wife panted and moaned, clutching her abdomen, and the husband paled, listing slightly. “I can’t take it anymore, what can I do?”
The nurses usher him out to have someone look at this nose and the rest of the team turn to the woman, timer running, braced for the worst. “Dilation complete, this one barely made it in time. It’s crowning! Ready to receive the package in five…four…three…two…”