Chicago Med/Chicago PD fic: Faith Enough
Title: Faith Enough
Disclaimer: Not mine.
A/N: Purgatory fill for hc_bingo. Short and unbeta’ed.
Warnings: Moderately religious stuff
Summary: The three minutes of Will’s short death are the most excruciating three minutes of Jay’s long life.
-o-
In the Catholic church, there are teachings about purgatory. This is a place where souls go after death, stuck between Heaven and Hell. While the souls there have accepted God’s grace, their imperfect purification has left them outside of his eternal rest.
This is why the Catholic church encourages prayers for the day and the intervention of the saints. It is a way to help those lost souls find their way out of purgatory.
Jay knows this official teaching; they pounded it into his brain during catechism.
Except Jay’s not big on praying.
Honestly, he’s not real big on faith.
And purgatory has never seemed relevant while he’s stuck here on Earth.
At least, that had always been the case.
Before he watched his brother die in front of him and spent three minutes, praying to get him back.
-o-
Will doesn’t mean to, you see.
Then, he never does.
It’s his eternal justification. It’s the one he uses when he stands in front of Ms. Goodwin for his latest infraction. It’s the line he uses with Jay when he’s failed to come through on another family obligation. He’s got good intentions. He’s always got the best intentions.
And he doesn’t mean to.
But the patient is on the other side of the water. Lieutenant Casey from Fire is yelling about how the water could be electrified, but the patient’s not responding. She could be dying for all they know. Dying ten feet away in a flooded basement during an electrical outage at the hospital. Someone’s got to act; that’s a life that needs to be saved.
Okay, so maybe Will does mean to.
He steps in the water; he crosses the distance. He makes it there, no problems at all. Checks a pulse, finds her breathing and stables.
He looks back and grins where Jay is waiting with Casey and Choi. “She’s okay,” he says, getting to his feet to look for a way back over. “I think she’s just gotten a shock -- must have been from trying to work on the panel--”
And he doesn’t see the puddle on the floor.
He doesn’t see the live wire in it.
He takes a step.
It’s like fire in his brain, a surge up and down his spine.
Then, there’s nothing at all.
-o-
All Jay can think is that he’s not supposed to be here.
Except, Ms. Goodwin has come to suspect sabotage. The hospital electrical systems have been shorting out all day, different parts going out at different times. It’s gotten so bad that Fire’s on the scene trying to secure it, and the maintenance crews are pulling overtime. There’s a report from one of the sub-basements -- something about a flood -- before the worker cuts out. Ms. Goodwin is cautious, but Will is leaving before he clears it, and Choi’s one step behind. Jay follows because he’s a man of action, and they find Casey on the way down, following the same reports that something is wrong.
The sub-basement is flooded, and the electrical system has been ravaged. Parts and wires have been torn and rewired, and Casey is cautious for a fire risk. Choi starts to track the systems as best he can, speculating how someone was able to do this, but Will is drawn like a moth to a flame. He sees the worker, and Jay is trying to piece together if she's a victim or a perpetrator, but it’s not a thought that crosses Will’s mind. All he sees is someone who needs saving.
Casey yells at Will to stop, that the water is unstable. Choi steps back, looking at the ground with new concern. Jay is perched on his toes, not sure if he’s supposed to act or not. They have to think, they have to be smart, they have to--
Will crosses the water and Choi yells at him to stop. Casey flinches, and Jay stares, face pale and heart stuttering in his chest. Will makes it to the other side, dropping to his knees as he checks on the woman.
“She’s okay,” he says, back on his feet. Now he’s finally thinking about how he got there. That’s just like him, to get in over his head before he starts looking for a way back up. “I think she’s just gotten a shock -- must have been from trying to work on the panel--”
With Will, it’s never the big things that break.
It’s the small things, a million little things.
One step too far.
One risk too many.
His foot touches another puddle of water. Sparks fly; electricity sizzles. The whole room goes momentarily dark, and the room smells of ozone. Emergency lights whine to life, and the whole place seems to shudder as the systems roll back online. There’s smoke that burns Jay’s eyes, and it’s Ethan who screams.
“Will!”
Casey, wearing his thick rubber suit, charges across the water, splashing wildly. He steps over the woman’s body to another form just beyond it.
Jay realizes belatedly: it’s Will.
It’s Will.
-o-
There is something, though.
Beyond the light, beyond the darkness.
Beyond life, beyond death.
Beyond.
Will blinks his eyes, but the feeling is surreal. There’s no substance behind it anymore. There’s no substance to him anymore. He thinks, he feels -- but he isn’t?
It’s only then, in the dimmest of realizations, that the notion occurs to him. A small inkling which solidifies into an immovable truth can neither prove nor deny. He just knows.
He’s dead.
His heart isn’t beating. There’s no air in his lungs. The synapses in his brain are no longer firing.
Will Halstead is well and truly dead.
-o-
Casey isn’t an elegant sort of figure, cumbering along in his suit, but he’s got years of experience under his belt; he’s good at it. He steps over the woman, reaching down for Will instead. Casey’s a first responder, not a doctor. He doesn’t stop to assess. Instead, he reaches down, pulls Will up by the arm. Will’s head flops back limply, but Casey doesn’t slow down. Instead, he bends over, yanking Will hard until he slides over Casey’s shoulders.
Sparing barely a second, Casey makes sure Will is secure. Then, he charges back, splashing the water as he does. He pushes past Jay, and Jay realizes belatedly that Ethan is beckoning him forward toward the dry stretch of cement behind them.
“Over here, over here,” Ethan says. Casey complies, and Ethan steps forward to guide him by hand. “Let’s put him down real easy.”
Casey does the heavy lifting, but Ethan is attentive to Will’s head and neck. Jay’s a first responder, too, but he finds that he can’t move. He’s not even thinking coherently right now.
On the ground, Will is splayed out. His legs are stretched long in front of him with his arms spread eagle at his sides. Ethan tips his head back, keeping his face forward, and he leans down close to Will’s exposed airway.
Will doesn’t move.
His eyes are closed, his face is pale.
Casey sits back on his haunches, looking expectant. Ethan makes a face and sits up, pressing his fingers into the pulse point at Will’s neck. Frustrated, Ethan shakes his head. “He’s not breathing,” he announces. “No pulse either.”
The words carry meaning, but Jay can’t process that. Casey is already moving; Ethan lines himself up in position, and Jay can’t--
Will is lying lifeless on the ground.
Jay can’t.
-o-
The revelation of his own death seems like it should carry more weight. Will thinks it should be like a gut punch. There should be shock, horror, terror -- all of it.
But it crystallizes in his essence, and somehow, it seems as natural as anything else. There’s nothing to be done for it, after all. He’s just dead.
That is about the only clarity being afforded to him at the moment. Despite the fact that he knows unequivocally that he’s dead, he’s not sure what else is going on. He doesn’t know where he is or what he’s actually supposed to be doing.
This is the part that leaves him with some uncertainty. As a man of science, he likes clear-cut answers. And, as a man of faith, he knows that there are really only two options right now.
Either he’s in Heaven, accepted into God’s eternal paradise.
Or he’s in Hell, condemned to everlasting separation.
It has always seemed like an either/or proposition, which is admittedly problematic at the moment. See, this isn’t salvation. It’s not damnation either.
It’s something else, something in between, something ill defined. It’s suspended between light and dark, good and bad. He’s suspended; he’s stuck. He’s somewhere in between like his story isn’t finished yet.
Purgatory, then.
Will’s stuck in purgatory.
-o-
Will’s dead.
Will’s not breathing, his heart’s not beating, and Will’s dead. Jay’s brother -- his last surviving family member -- is dead. His mind cycles through it a thousand different ways, but the conclusion is cold and hard. It sits on Jay’s chest like a weight, constricting his stomach like a vice.
Will’s dead, Will’s dead, Will’s dead.
Jay is at a total loss, and he stands to the side, dumbstruck. Ethan and Casey, on the other hand, seem to know exactly what to do. Jay’s supposed to know, too, but his mind’s not working right. He’s not working right.
Ethan is already doing a round of compressions, lined up with Will’s breastbone. Each movement is clean and precise, compressing the rib cage a good two inches, enough to jostle Will’s entire body and keep the blood circulating to his brain.
When Ethan pauses, Casey doesn’t need coaching. He’s already called for backup -- paramedic support, in the sub-basement -- and he’s perched on his knees by Will’s head. He keeps Will’s airway open, pinching off his nose, and breathing once.
Then again.
Compressions, breathing.
Then again.
Compressions, breathing.
Then again.
-o-
Purgatory is a concept Will knows about, sure. It’s taught in the Catholic church, but in truth, it’s never stood out to Will as overly relevant. He’d always assumed things would go one way or another. He didn’t mind saying a prayer for the wayward soul that had passed before him -- for his mother or father, for example -- but he’s never actually considered the space between.
It’s always been simpler, in his mind. Good or bad, right or wrong, pure or evil. He’s liked working in those dichotomies. It makes life easier.
But it’s not easy. And it’s not simple. Will can pretend all he likes when he’s alive and all the choices are stretched before him. Now that he’s aware of his own finite body’s limitations, he’s faced with the fact that the choices have been taken away from him. All he’s left with here, it seems, are consequences.
That’s what this is about, then. The consequences of Will’s action. Because he’s a man of faith, but that doesn’t make him a good man. He’s saved lives, he’s put others first, but you can’t get into Heaven by your good deeds. It is by faith that you must be saved. And not just faith. It is an act of submission. To make yourself like Christ, found in the appearance of man, considering equality with God not something to be grasped.
That’s a tall order, it seems, for a doctor with a God complex that just won’t die.
Or maybe it will.
Quite literally.
It’s just another part of the gospel Will’s taken for granted. Purgatory is irrelevant; submission is inconvenient. He likes a more liberal interpretation. Submission just never suited him; he likes control. He needs control.
Standing there, in the expanse between Heaven and Hell, that seems quaint. Funny, even. Because control is an illusion. It’s a lesson he’s been taught time and time again, through all his failures, but he persists in believing in his own infallibility anyway. He’s always thought it’d catch up with him someday.
Well, Will thinks as he takes in his situation once more, looks like that day has finally come.
-o-
Ethan’s a professional, and Casey’s the best firefight Jay knows, but it’s not working. Will’s not responding. Will’s still dead.
Casey’s radio crackles with an update -- it’s going to take awhile to find them, it’s a mess down there -- and Ethan shakes his head. He looks up and makes eye contact with Jay.
“Can you help?”
Jay blinks at him, not sure what he means.
“Jay, can you help?” Ethan says again, more sharply now. “I need you to help save Will’s life.”
The invective is simple, and Jay’s higher level reasoning has gone out the window, but he’s still got rote responses. Fight or flight kind of stuff. Following orders.
His head bobs without his explicit comprehensive.
Ethan nods back. “I need you to take over compression,” he says. “There’s a defibrillator in the field kit.”
“Will it work?” Casey asks.
Ethan slides out of the way while Jay gets into place. Casey breaths for Will in the transition, and Jay finds the spot in the middle of Will’s chest and starts pressing.
“It has to,” Ethan says, turning away and grabbing the kit.
Jay can hear him scuffling about, opening equipment, ripping packages back, but he can’t afford to divide his attention. At first, he focuses exclusively on his hands on Will’s chest, measuring the distance from the neckline to the belly button, finding the midline between each pectoral muscle. He compresses with critical efficiency -- two inches, two inches, two inches. The rib cage compresses, and the bones shift. It’s a simple mechanical process. It’s not complicated; it’s not emotional. It’s just a task to complete, orders to follow. That’s all.
Except that’s not all. Jay can pretend all he likes. He can shift his focus and deflect, but the truth is still right there in front of him. He catches a glimpse of Will’s face, and the facades all come crashing back down on him.
This isn’t a task to complete -- this is his brother’s life he’s talking about. He’s following orders because Will’s dead. Casey breathes for Will again, but there’s no life in his chest. His cheeks have grown sallow, a stark contrast from the shock of red hair against the grimy cement floor. All those times he chided Will for not coming back, and he’s struck with the horrible realization that Will may never come back again.
He starts compressions again, tears burning in his eyes. His own throat is so tight that almost no air can pass through. He’s lost a lot, and he’s survived it all, but God help him, he’s not sure he’ll survive this.
And Jay’s never prayed before, not when their mom was dying slowly, not when their father was missing in the fire or on life support.
But Jay prays now.
Jay prays.
Dear God, please bring him back.
-o-
It could have been seconds; it could have been millennia. It doesn’t matter now; time has no meaning. Will is and will be, and what he was is nothing but a distant memory.
And it’s ironic, really. The afterlife is nothing like he expects. He’s always envisioned golden streets -- or fiery pits. There are supposed to be people, other souls, like him. He expects a jury hall with a trial of his rights and wrongs.
But there’s no judgement. There’s no condemnation. There’s no throng of people, good or otherwise. It’s a quiet emptiness, but the vastness is not as terrifying as he expects. It’s peaceful, really, in all the best and worst ways.
Really, though, purgatory seems to be nothing other than him. He’s not being faced with his shortcomings. He’s not being confronted by his demons. He’s not staring down the brink of eternity.
No, Will’s just come face to face with himself.
He likes black and white decisions, but this is nothing but shades of gray. The futility of it strikes him. All he’s learned, all he’s done, and he’s nowhere. He’s nothing.
He’s a mix of it, then. He’s the good and the bad, he’s the right and the wrong.
He ignores the advance directive of a cancer patient to give her daughter more time with her mother. He breaks Nina’s heart so he can finally admit the truth to Natalie. He goes home with another woman but spends the whole night crying on her couch because he can’t let go. He compromises an FBI investigation to save the life of a man who will try to kill him. He cuts himself out of Natalie life just like she asks and then refuses to let her back in when she’s finally ready. He risks his career at a safe injection site just to fall in love and do everything the hard way.
He takes the fall for Natalie because she’s a good doctor and a good mother and even if she doesn’t have a future with him, she still deserves a happily ever after.
Natalie takes the fall for him because she still thinks there’s something in him worth saving.
Honestly, standing there on the cusp of everything and nothing, Will’s not sure what that is anymore. He’s not sure who he’s kidding or what he’s even trying to do. Build a career? Save lives? Be a better person?
These are not mistakes in intent.
These are mistakes in scope.
It’s just that he believed he had control.
And he didn’t.
He never did.
The condemnation seems complete, but Will finds the subtler truth.
See, in the end, he’s still human.
In the end, though, he’s still not enough.
In the end, it’s still the end.
-o-
Ethan comes back, sitting on the other side of Will. Jay is still going, his arms numb from exertion. Ethan nods to Casey. “We need to get his shirt out of the way.”
Casey eases around Jay, edging him to the side with ease. Jay sits back, not sure what to do, and he watches dumbly as Casey takes the hem of Will’s shirt and rips it up the middle. He splays the torn edges open, and Ethan wastes no time placing the electrodes.
“Can you set up the mask?” Ethan asks. “It’s in the kit.”
Casey is already reaching for it while Ethan turns the machine on and it buzzes to life. “Okay,” Ethan says. He glances at Casey, eyes settling on Jay with trepidation. “Clear!”
-o-
Purgatory is vast. Will walks and walks, but he never gets anywhere. He yells and screams, but there’s nothing but the sound of his own voice, echoing back in the stillness. The endlessness is pervasive, but it is both dark and light all at once. Will is both everywhere and nowhere, and still it presses in on him from all sides.
He doesn’t understand it, really. He doesn’t know how to get out. If there’s something coming, he has no way of seeing it. Moreover, there’s no way to hide from it either.
Or maybe there’s nothing coming. Maybe this is it. This and this and this and this.
The not-knowing is like an itch he can’t quite scratch. It might be torture, but it also might be a comfort. Maybe there’s nothing to know. Maybe this is a solace after a lifetime of wrong decisions and failures. He doesn’t know. He can’t tell.
He cries, but the tears never run dry.
He rages, but there’s nothing to right.
He begs, but no one hears.
And he runs, but there’s nowhere to go.
When he comes to the end of his options -- the end of himself -- Will does the last thing afforded to him.
He accepts.
-o-
“Clear!”
The whine of the charge is painfully familiar now, and the force is enough that Will’s body arcs off the ground, landing back down with a thud. The shock of electricity leaves him as limp as he was before, but now his features are taking on a ghastly appearance. The shock is doing nothing for Will, but it’s solidifying the reality for Jay. Will’s dead.
After three shocks, Ethan looks to Casey. “Any word on that backup?”
Casey’s look back is couched in actual pain. He picks up his radio. “Hey! Where’s that backup?”
Ethan looks back to Will, hands rested on his knees. He breathes heavily and shakes his head.
“You can’t stop,” Jay says, feeling denial bubble up inside him. He nods to Will vigorously. “You can’t stop!”
Casey is still on the radio, but Ethan looks at him. It’s an apology in his eyes. “Jay--”
He won’t hear it.
He won’t accept it.
His own heart twists in his chest, and he thinks he may be sick. “No,” he says. “Do it again!”
Ethan looks back to Will, and the resignation is evident. When he starts the charge again, it’s not clear if he’s doing this for Will or for Jay.
Jay doesn’t care.
He holds his air taut in his lungs.
“Clear!” Ethan says.
And breathes a prayer.
-o-
Acceptance is not the ending.
Acceptance is the start.
He is pulled thin across the expanse of the universe, and there is no place left for truth to hide. Things are either self-evident, or they are simply not. All his work, all his pride, all his ego: and he reduces himself to the simplest of truth.
All his life, all he’s ever wanted to do was save people.
Save a life.
Save another life.
All these lives he’s saved.
And here he is, unable to save his own.
He should have known this. He should have understood it from the start. For in this hope we were saved. But hope that is seen is no hope at all. Who hopes for what they already have?
Skill and knowledge, dedication and motivation. You can save lives, but what of the soul?
Will is a man of faith, after all.
What comes next, is not for him to say.
The first thing, the last thing, the thing you come back to is as vast and narrow as purgatory itself: hope.
He looks up.
-o-
Jay looks down.
It’s the same charge, the same shock, the same arc of Will’s back against the cold, wet cement
But it’s different this time.
This time, there is no continuous tone.
This time, there is a wild series of beeps before the rhythm evens out.
This time, Ethan almost laughs in giddy, unadulterated relief. “He’s back,” he says, reaching down to check on Will. “We’ve got him back.”
-o-
It comes back to him in a rush. The universe expands exponentially for a moment, a million lights and sounds coalescing into one. Then, abruptly, it collapses back in on itself like a rush of air from a popped balloon. Darkness consumes him, and then--
Will opens his eyes.
They physicality of it is sudden, and Will is overwhelmed by an onslaught of pain. Every inch of him hurts, and excruciating, burning pain that seems to ache deep inside him.
Confused though he is, Will inhales sharply and it’s like a thousand tiny daggers.
Nothing has ever felt better.
Lost in the pain, it takes Will a second to realize he’s not alone. He hears voice, and he can feels the floor, cold and wet, at his back. Then, he recognizes Jay’s face, right above him.
“Will,” he says, and he looks strangely like he’s been crying. “Thank God.”
-o-
Backup arrives quickly after that, and Ethan efficiently directs them what to do. Within minutes, Will is loaded up onto a gurney. He’s dazed but awake, and when Ethan peppers him with questions Will can answer them slowly but accurately. Another pair of paramedics attend to the second victim and possible perpetrator, and Jay knows as a cop, that should be his primary focus.
It’s not, though.
He lets Casey work on securing the scene, and a pair of patrolmen show up just as they start to wheel Will out. Jay keeps pace, and Casey falls in step beside him, looking like he’s seen a ghost.
“You okay?” Jay asks. In the melee, he’s not taken stock of anything else.
“Yeah,” Casey says, sounding genuinely shocked. “I just can’t believe we got him back.”
“Why?” Jay asks. “I mean, people come back all the time.”
Casey snorts a little. “Not like that,” he admits. He comes to a stop, and Jay follows him while Ethan directs the gurney out single file. “Choi shocked him four times. There was no epi on board. He shouldn’t have come back.”
Jay frowns, not sure what Casey is actually saying.
Or maybe he is sure, and that’s the problem.
He shakes his head. “But--”
Casey quickly recovers himself. “I’m relieved. I mean, I’m really glad,” he says. “It’s just…”
Jay’s not particularly a man of faith, but the prayers are like an aftertaste in the back of his throat. He swallows, but they don’t recede. He meets Casey’s gaze with sudden understanding. “A miracle?”
Casey blinks once, and then he nods. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Maybe it is.”
-o-
Dying is a sudden and overwhelming experience.
Coming back to life is confusing and muddled by comparison. In purgatory, there had been clarity to the mystery. Back on Earth, anchored to his own body, Will finds that there is little sense to make in the chaos. The predictable response seems unexpectedly empty somehow, and as his colleagues go through the motions to make sure he is indeed stable, Will’s wondering if he’s missed the point.
But his heart is beating. His vitals are stable. There’s no sign of brain damage.
Ethan wants to keep him for observation, but he’s impressed with the lack of residual side effects. He’s going to be fine, is the final pronunciation.
Will just isn’t sure what fine even means.
When Ethan is done, Will finds Jay sitting in the corner of his exam room. He knows Jay has been there this whole time. He knows because Jay’s always been there, even when Will hasn’t been.
“Well,” Will says, clearing his throat to break the silence. “That wasn’t what I had planned for the day.”
He attempts to laugh, but the sound is hollow in his chest.
Jay doesn’t return the attempt. “You died today,” he says instead.
The bluntness of it carries no malice. Jay isn’t trying to accuse Will of something. If anything, it’s a confession.
Somewhere between salvation and damnation. Purgatory can be a state you live in right here on Earth.
“Yeah,” Will says, the forced humor fading. “Sorry about that.”
Jay shakes his head wearily, and he looks at his hands for a long moment. “Did you even think?” he asks, and he looks up again. “Did you even think twice before you crossed that water?”
Will shrugs, feeling helpless in his answer. “I saw someone who needed help. How is she, by the way?”
“Fine,” Jay says. “She just got a shock, but she’s recovering. She’s the one who did this, by the way. She was the perp.”
Jay says it like it makes a difference. Like there’s still good and evil to discern, like black and white could still be a thing.
But people are complicated. Intentions can prove false. In the end, man is measured by something different entirely.
“It doesn’t matter,” he says. “I did what I thought I had to do.”
Jay exhales heavily. “If you’d just waited, Casey could have done it. He was wearing rubber boots.”
That’s a good point, but most decisions are not afforded an eternity to weigh the pros and cons. And, frankly, mistakes are made. Mistakes are always made.
Jay continues, his voice sounding raw. “I don’t get why you have to do it, every single time. Save people. Even when it’s the wrong thing to do,” he says. “I mean, you don’t have to play God, Will. Not every time.”
There’s no more room to fight, then. The vastness of who he is no longer has to be empty. It can be full, if he lets it. “You’re right,” he admits.
Jay’s brow immediately furrows. “I’m -- what?”
Will shrugs plaintively. “You’re right,” he agrees. “I don’t have to play God. In fact, I shouldn’t keep playing God.”
Jay has clearly been preparing for a fight, and for Will to cede his side so readily goes against the script. Jay grapples with that, and comes up short. “Then -- what?”
“Then, nothing. Or everything,” Will says. “I mean, I’ve screwed up a thousand times. I’m going to screw up a thousand more. But I know what I’m here for. I know I’m supposed to save people. I’ve never doubted that, even if I sometimes go about it the wrong way.”
“Sometimes?” Jay asks. “I mean, you do realize that you can’t save anyone if you’re dead.”
The point is well taken. Will lifts one shoulder. “Yeah, I know,” he says. “But it’s hard to remember sometimes. It’s my job to make life and death calls. Sometimes I forget that I can’t control everything. If someone’s got to be God, then it should probably be -- you know.”
He shrugs and makes a vague gesture while Jay doesn’t reply.
“I know that’s not your thing,” Will says.
“It’s not,” Jay says. Then, he seems to falter. “But--”
This time, it’s Will’s turn to be surprised. “But?”
Jay’s fortitude does not hold out. “But I saw you die, man,” he says, and it’s another confession. “You really think I wasn’t praying?”
It’s not a thought that’s occurred to Will. In his searching, he’s found the humility lacking in his faith. Next time he faces eternity, he wants to be confident of his terms. The thing about hope is that it is a contagious thing. And it never runs out.
“You were really praying?” Will asks.
Jay throws his hands out. “You were dead!”
It's an answer that makes sense. Because he is a man of contradictions, of good and bad, right and wrong, but it distills down into truth that is so vast, so intimate, that it cannot be denied.
“Huh,” is all Will manages to say. He looks at his brother with something like wonder. “So there really are miracles.”
Jay grunts, crossing his legs as he sits back in his chair. “If you learn some restraint after this, then I guess so.”
Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see.
And today, it seems, there is faith enough.
-o-
The three minutes of Will’s short death are the most excruciating three minutes of Jay’s long life.
Three minutes can be like the blink of an eye.
Three minutes can be eternity.
Lives are saved. People are changed.
And hope is born.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
A/N: Purgatory fill for hc_bingo. Short and unbeta’ed.
Warnings: Moderately religious stuff
Summary: The three minutes of Will’s short death are the most excruciating three minutes of Jay’s long life.
-o-
In the Catholic church, there are teachings about purgatory. This is a place where souls go after death, stuck between Heaven and Hell. While the souls there have accepted God’s grace, their imperfect purification has left them outside of his eternal rest.
This is why the Catholic church encourages prayers for the day and the intervention of the saints. It is a way to help those lost souls find their way out of purgatory.
Jay knows this official teaching; they pounded it into his brain during catechism.
Except Jay’s not big on praying.
Honestly, he’s not real big on faith.
And purgatory has never seemed relevant while he’s stuck here on Earth.
At least, that had always been the case.
Before he watched his brother die in front of him and spent three minutes, praying to get him back.
-o-
Will doesn’t mean to, you see.
Then, he never does.
It’s his eternal justification. It’s the one he uses when he stands in front of Ms. Goodwin for his latest infraction. It’s the line he uses with Jay when he’s failed to come through on another family obligation. He’s got good intentions. He’s always got the best intentions.
And he doesn’t mean to.
But the patient is on the other side of the water. Lieutenant Casey from Fire is yelling about how the water could be electrified, but the patient’s not responding. She could be dying for all they know. Dying ten feet away in a flooded basement during an electrical outage at the hospital. Someone’s got to act; that’s a life that needs to be saved.
Okay, so maybe Will does mean to.
He steps in the water; he crosses the distance. He makes it there, no problems at all. Checks a pulse, finds her breathing and stables.
He looks back and grins where Jay is waiting with Casey and Choi. “She’s okay,” he says, getting to his feet to look for a way back over. “I think she’s just gotten a shock -- must have been from trying to work on the panel--”
And he doesn’t see the puddle on the floor.
He doesn’t see the live wire in it.
He takes a step.
It’s like fire in his brain, a surge up and down his spine.
Then, there’s nothing at all.
-o-
All Jay can think is that he’s not supposed to be here.
Except, Ms. Goodwin has come to suspect sabotage. The hospital electrical systems have been shorting out all day, different parts going out at different times. It’s gotten so bad that Fire’s on the scene trying to secure it, and the maintenance crews are pulling overtime. There’s a report from one of the sub-basements -- something about a flood -- before the worker cuts out. Ms. Goodwin is cautious, but Will is leaving before he clears it, and Choi’s one step behind. Jay follows because he’s a man of action, and they find Casey on the way down, following the same reports that something is wrong.
The sub-basement is flooded, and the electrical system has been ravaged. Parts and wires have been torn and rewired, and Casey is cautious for a fire risk. Choi starts to track the systems as best he can, speculating how someone was able to do this, but Will is drawn like a moth to a flame. He sees the worker, and Jay is trying to piece together if she's a victim or a perpetrator, but it’s not a thought that crosses Will’s mind. All he sees is someone who needs saving.
Casey yells at Will to stop, that the water is unstable. Choi steps back, looking at the ground with new concern. Jay is perched on his toes, not sure if he’s supposed to act or not. They have to think, they have to be smart, they have to--
Will crosses the water and Choi yells at him to stop. Casey flinches, and Jay stares, face pale and heart stuttering in his chest. Will makes it to the other side, dropping to his knees as he checks on the woman.
“She’s okay,” he says, back on his feet. Now he’s finally thinking about how he got there. That’s just like him, to get in over his head before he starts looking for a way back up. “I think she’s just gotten a shock -- must have been from trying to work on the panel--”
With Will, it’s never the big things that break.
It’s the small things, a million little things.
One step too far.
One risk too many.
His foot touches another puddle of water. Sparks fly; electricity sizzles. The whole room goes momentarily dark, and the room smells of ozone. Emergency lights whine to life, and the whole place seems to shudder as the systems roll back online. There’s smoke that burns Jay’s eyes, and it’s Ethan who screams.
“Will!”
Casey, wearing his thick rubber suit, charges across the water, splashing wildly. He steps over the woman’s body to another form just beyond it.
Jay realizes belatedly: it’s Will.
It’s Will.
-o-
There is something, though.
Beyond the light, beyond the darkness.
Beyond life, beyond death.
Beyond.
Will blinks his eyes, but the feeling is surreal. There’s no substance behind it anymore. There’s no substance to him anymore. He thinks, he feels -- but he isn’t?
It’s only then, in the dimmest of realizations, that the notion occurs to him. A small inkling which solidifies into an immovable truth can neither prove nor deny. He just knows.
He’s dead.
His heart isn’t beating. There’s no air in his lungs. The synapses in his brain are no longer firing.
Will Halstead is well and truly dead.
-o-
Casey isn’t an elegant sort of figure, cumbering along in his suit, but he’s got years of experience under his belt; he’s good at it. He steps over the woman, reaching down for Will instead. Casey’s a first responder, not a doctor. He doesn’t stop to assess. Instead, he reaches down, pulls Will up by the arm. Will’s head flops back limply, but Casey doesn’t slow down. Instead, he bends over, yanking Will hard until he slides over Casey’s shoulders.
Sparing barely a second, Casey makes sure Will is secure. Then, he charges back, splashing the water as he does. He pushes past Jay, and Jay realizes belatedly that Ethan is beckoning him forward toward the dry stretch of cement behind them.
“Over here, over here,” Ethan says. Casey complies, and Ethan steps forward to guide him by hand. “Let’s put him down real easy.”
Casey does the heavy lifting, but Ethan is attentive to Will’s head and neck. Jay’s a first responder, too, but he finds that he can’t move. He’s not even thinking coherently right now.
On the ground, Will is splayed out. His legs are stretched long in front of him with his arms spread eagle at his sides. Ethan tips his head back, keeping his face forward, and he leans down close to Will’s exposed airway.
Will doesn’t move.
His eyes are closed, his face is pale.
Casey sits back on his haunches, looking expectant. Ethan makes a face and sits up, pressing his fingers into the pulse point at Will’s neck. Frustrated, Ethan shakes his head. “He’s not breathing,” he announces. “No pulse either.”
The words carry meaning, but Jay can’t process that. Casey is already moving; Ethan lines himself up in position, and Jay can’t--
Will is lying lifeless on the ground.
Jay can’t.
-o-
The revelation of his own death seems like it should carry more weight. Will thinks it should be like a gut punch. There should be shock, horror, terror -- all of it.
But it crystallizes in his essence, and somehow, it seems as natural as anything else. There’s nothing to be done for it, after all. He’s just dead.
That is about the only clarity being afforded to him at the moment. Despite the fact that he knows unequivocally that he’s dead, he’s not sure what else is going on. He doesn’t know where he is or what he’s actually supposed to be doing.
This is the part that leaves him with some uncertainty. As a man of science, he likes clear-cut answers. And, as a man of faith, he knows that there are really only two options right now.
Either he’s in Heaven, accepted into God’s eternal paradise.
Or he’s in Hell, condemned to everlasting separation.
It has always seemed like an either/or proposition, which is admittedly problematic at the moment. See, this isn’t salvation. It’s not damnation either.
It’s something else, something in between, something ill defined. It’s suspended between light and dark, good and bad. He’s suspended; he’s stuck. He’s somewhere in between like his story isn’t finished yet.
Purgatory, then.
Will’s stuck in purgatory.
-o-
Will’s dead.
Will’s not breathing, his heart’s not beating, and Will’s dead. Jay’s brother -- his last surviving family member -- is dead. His mind cycles through it a thousand different ways, but the conclusion is cold and hard. It sits on Jay’s chest like a weight, constricting his stomach like a vice.
Will’s dead, Will’s dead, Will’s dead.
Jay is at a total loss, and he stands to the side, dumbstruck. Ethan and Casey, on the other hand, seem to know exactly what to do. Jay’s supposed to know, too, but his mind’s not working right. He’s not working right.
Ethan is already doing a round of compressions, lined up with Will’s breastbone. Each movement is clean and precise, compressing the rib cage a good two inches, enough to jostle Will’s entire body and keep the blood circulating to his brain.
When Ethan pauses, Casey doesn’t need coaching. He’s already called for backup -- paramedic support, in the sub-basement -- and he’s perched on his knees by Will’s head. He keeps Will’s airway open, pinching off his nose, and breathing once.
Then again.
Compressions, breathing.
Then again.
Compressions, breathing.
Then again.
-o-
Purgatory is a concept Will knows about, sure. It’s taught in the Catholic church, but in truth, it’s never stood out to Will as overly relevant. He’d always assumed things would go one way or another. He didn’t mind saying a prayer for the wayward soul that had passed before him -- for his mother or father, for example -- but he’s never actually considered the space between.
It’s always been simpler, in his mind. Good or bad, right or wrong, pure or evil. He’s liked working in those dichotomies. It makes life easier.
But it’s not easy. And it’s not simple. Will can pretend all he likes when he’s alive and all the choices are stretched before him. Now that he’s aware of his own finite body’s limitations, he’s faced with the fact that the choices have been taken away from him. All he’s left with here, it seems, are consequences.
That’s what this is about, then. The consequences of Will’s action. Because he’s a man of faith, but that doesn’t make him a good man. He’s saved lives, he’s put others first, but you can’t get into Heaven by your good deeds. It is by faith that you must be saved. And not just faith. It is an act of submission. To make yourself like Christ, found in the appearance of man, considering equality with God not something to be grasped.
That’s a tall order, it seems, for a doctor with a God complex that just won’t die.
Or maybe it will.
Quite literally.
It’s just another part of the gospel Will’s taken for granted. Purgatory is irrelevant; submission is inconvenient. He likes a more liberal interpretation. Submission just never suited him; he likes control. He needs control.
Standing there, in the expanse between Heaven and Hell, that seems quaint. Funny, even. Because control is an illusion. It’s a lesson he’s been taught time and time again, through all his failures, but he persists in believing in his own infallibility anyway. He’s always thought it’d catch up with him someday.
Well, Will thinks as he takes in his situation once more, looks like that day has finally come.
-o-
Ethan’s a professional, and Casey’s the best firefight Jay knows, but it’s not working. Will’s not responding. Will’s still dead.
Casey’s radio crackles with an update -- it’s going to take awhile to find them, it’s a mess down there -- and Ethan shakes his head. He looks up and makes eye contact with Jay.
“Can you help?”
Jay blinks at him, not sure what he means.
“Jay, can you help?” Ethan says again, more sharply now. “I need you to help save Will’s life.”
The invective is simple, and Jay’s higher level reasoning has gone out the window, but he’s still got rote responses. Fight or flight kind of stuff. Following orders.
His head bobs without his explicit comprehensive.
Ethan nods back. “I need you to take over compression,” he says. “There’s a defibrillator in the field kit.”
“Will it work?” Casey asks.
Ethan slides out of the way while Jay gets into place. Casey breaths for Will in the transition, and Jay finds the spot in the middle of Will’s chest and starts pressing.
“It has to,” Ethan says, turning away and grabbing the kit.
Jay can hear him scuffling about, opening equipment, ripping packages back, but he can’t afford to divide his attention. At first, he focuses exclusively on his hands on Will’s chest, measuring the distance from the neckline to the belly button, finding the midline between each pectoral muscle. He compresses with critical efficiency -- two inches, two inches, two inches. The rib cage compresses, and the bones shift. It’s a simple mechanical process. It’s not complicated; it’s not emotional. It’s just a task to complete, orders to follow. That’s all.
Except that’s not all. Jay can pretend all he likes. He can shift his focus and deflect, but the truth is still right there in front of him. He catches a glimpse of Will’s face, and the facades all come crashing back down on him.
This isn’t a task to complete -- this is his brother’s life he’s talking about. He’s following orders because Will’s dead. Casey breathes for Will again, but there’s no life in his chest. His cheeks have grown sallow, a stark contrast from the shock of red hair against the grimy cement floor. All those times he chided Will for not coming back, and he’s struck with the horrible realization that Will may never come back again.
He starts compressions again, tears burning in his eyes. His own throat is so tight that almost no air can pass through. He’s lost a lot, and he’s survived it all, but God help him, he’s not sure he’ll survive this.
And Jay’s never prayed before, not when their mom was dying slowly, not when their father was missing in the fire or on life support.
But Jay prays now.
Jay prays.
Dear God, please bring him back.
-o-
It could have been seconds; it could have been millennia. It doesn’t matter now; time has no meaning. Will is and will be, and what he was is nothing but a distant memory.
And it’s ironic, really. The afterlife is nothing like he expects. He’s always envisioned golden streets -- or fiery pits. There are supposed to be people, other souls, like him. He expects a jury hall with a trial of his rights and wrongs.
But there’s no judgement. There’s no condemnation. There’s no throng of people, good or otherwise. It’s a quiet emptiness, but the vastness is not as terrifying as he expects. It’s peaceful, really, in all the best and worst ways.
Really, though, purgatory seems to be nothing other than him. He’s not being faced with his shortcomings. He’s not being confronted by his demons. He’s not staring down the brink of eternity.
No, Will’s just come face to face with himself.
He likes black and white decisions, but this is nothing but shades of gray. The futility of it strikes him. All he’s learned, all he’s done, and he’s nowhere. He’s nothing.
He’s a mix of it, then. He’s the good and the bad, he’s the right and the wrong.
He ignores the advance directive of a cancer patient to give her daughter more time with her mother. He breaks Nina’s heart so he can finally admit the truth to Natalie. He goes home with another woman but spends the whole night crying on her couch because he can’t let go. He compromises an FBI investigation to save the life of a man who will try to kill him. He cuts himself out of Natalie life just like she asks and then refuses to let her back in when she’s finally ready. He risks his career at a safe injection site just to fall in love and do everything the hard way.
He takes the fall for Natalie because she’s a good doctor and a good mother and even if she doesn’t have a future with him, she still deserves a happily ever after.
Natalie takes the fall for him because she still thinks there’s something in him worth saving.
Honestly, standing there on the cusp of everything and nothing, Will’s not sure what that is anymore. He’s not sure who he’s kidding or what he’s even trying to do. Build a career? Save lives? Be a better person?
These are not mistakes in intent.
These are mistakes in scope.
It’s just that he believed he had control.
And he didn’t.
He never did.
The condemnation seems complete, but Will finds the subtler truth.
See, in the end, he’s still human.
In the end, though, he’s still not enough.
In the end, it’s still the end.
-o-
Ethan comes back, sitting on the other side of Will. Jay is still going, his arms numb from exertion. Ethan nods to Casey. “We need to get his shirt out of the way.”
Casey eases around Jay, edging him to the side with ease. Jay sits back, not sure what to do, and he watches dumbly as Casey takes the hem of Will’s shirt and rips it up the middle. He splays the torn edges open, and Ethan wastes no time placing the electrodes.
“Can you set up the mask?” Ethan asks. “It’s in the kit.”
Casey is already reaching for it while Ethan turns the machine on and it buzzes to life. “Okay,” Ethan says. He glances at Casey, eyes settling on Jay with trepidation. “Clear!”
-o-
Purgatory is vast. Will walks and walks, but he never gets anywhere. He yells and screams, but there’s nothing but the sound of his own voice, echoing back in the stillness. The endlessness is pervasive, but it is both dark and light all at once. Will is both everywhere and nowhere, and still it presses in on him from all sides.
He doesn’t understand it, really. He doesn’t know how to get out. If there’s something coming, he has no way of seeing it. Moreover, there’s no way to hide from it either.
Or maybe there’s nothing coming. Maybe this is it. This and this and this and this.
The not-knowing is like an itch he can’t quite scratch. It might be torture, but it also might be a comfort. Maybe there’s nothing to know. Maybe this is a solace after a lifetime of wrong decisions and failures. He doesn’t know. He can’t tell.
He cries, but the tears never run dry.
He rages, but there’s nothing to right.
He begs, but no one hears.
And he runs, but there’s nowhere to go.
When he comes to the end of his options -- the end of himself -- Will does the last thing afforded to him.
He accepts.
-o-
“Clear!”
The whine of the charge is painfully familiar now, and the force is enough that Will’s body arcs off the ground, landing back down with a thud. The shock of electricity leaves him as limp as he was before, but now his features are taking on a ghastly appearance. The shock is doing nothing for Will, but it’s solidifying the reality for Jay. Will’s dead.
After three shocks, Ethan looks to Casey. “Any word on that backup?”
Casey’s look back is couched in actual pain. He picks up his radio. “Hey! Where’s that backup?”
Ethan looks back to Will, hands rested on his knees. He breathes heavily and shakes his head.
“You can’t stop,” Jay says, feeling denial bubble up inside him. He nods to Will vigorously. “You can’t stop!”
Casey is still on the radio, but Ethan looks at him. It’s an apology in his eyes. “Jay--”
He won’t hear it.
He won’t accept it.
His own heart twists in his chest, and he thinks he may be sick. “No,” he says. “Do it again!”
Ethan looks back to Will, and the resignation is evident. When he starts the charge again, it’s not clear if he’s doing this for Will or for Jay.
Jay doesn’t care.
He holds his air taut in his lungs.
“Clear!” Ethan says.
And breathes a prayer.
-o-
Acceptance is not the ending.
Acceptance is the start.
He is pulled thin across the expanse of the universe, and there is no place left for truth to hide. Things are either self-evident, or they are simply not. All his work, all his pride, all his ego: and he reduces himself to the simplest of truth.
All his life, all he’s ever wanted to do was save people.
Save a life.
Save another life.
All these lives he’s saved.
And here he is, unable to save his own.
He should have known this. He should have understood it from the start. For in this hope we were saved. But hope that is seen is no hope at all. Who hopes for what they already have?
Skill and knowledge, dedication and motivation. You can save lives, but what of the soul?
Will is a man of faith, after all.
What comes next, is not for him to say.
The first thing, the last thing, the thing you come back to is as vast and narrow as purgatory itself: hope.
He looks up.
-o-
Jay looks down.
It’s the same charge, the same shock, the same arc of Will’s back against the cold, wet cement
But it’s different this time.
This time, there is no continuous tone.
This time, there is a wild series of beeps before the rhythm evens out.
This time, Ethan almost laughs in giddy, unadulterated relief. “He’s back,” he says, reaching down to check on Will. “We’ve got him back.”
-o-
It comes back to him in a rush. The universe expands exponentially for a moment, a million lights and sounds coalescing into one. Then, abruptly, it collapses back in on itself like a rush of air from a popped balloon. Darkness consumes him, and then--
Will opens his eyes.
They physicality of it is sudden, and Will is overwhelmed by an onslaught of pain. Every inch of him hurts, and excruciating, burning pain that seems to ache deep inside him.
Confused though he is, Will inhales sharply and it’s like a thousand tiny daggers.
Nothing has ever felt better.
Lost in the pain, it takes Will a second to realize he’s not alone. He hears voice, and he can feels the floor, cold and wet, at his back. Then, he recognizes Jay’s face, right above him.
“Will,” he says, and he looks strangely like he’s been crying. “Thank God.”
-o-
Backup arrives quickly after that, and Ethan efficiently directs them what to do. Within minutes, Will is loaded up onto a gurney. He’s dazed but awake, and when Ethan peppers him with questions Will can answer them slowly but accurately. Another pair of paramedics attend to the second victim and possible perpetrator, and Jay knows as a cop, that should be his primary focus.
It’s not, though.
He lets Casey work on securing the scene, and a pair of patrolmen show up just as they start to wheel Will out. Jay keeps pace, and Casey falls in step beside him, looking like he’s seen a ghost.
“You okay?” Jay asks. In the melee, he’s not taken stock of anything else.
“Yeah,” Casey says, sounding genuinely shocked. “I just can’t believe we got him back.”
“Why?” Jay asks. “I mean, people come back all the time.”
Casey snorts a little. “Not like that,” he admits. He comes to a stop, and Jay follows him while Ethan directs the gurney out single file. “Choi shocked him four times. There was no epi on board. He shouldn’t have come back.”
Jay frowns, not sure what Casey is actually saying.
Or maybe he is sure, and that’s the problem.
He shakes his head. “But--”
Casey quickly recovers himself. “I’m relieved. I mean, I’m really glad,” he says. “It’s just…”
Jay’s not particularly a man of faith, but the prayers are like an aftertaste in the back of his throat. He swallows, but they don’t recede. He meets Casey’s gaze with sudden understanding. “A miracle?”
Casey blinks once, and then he nods. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Maybe it is.”
-o-
Dying is a sudden and overwhelming experience.
Coming back to life is confusing and muddled by comparison. In purgatory, there had been clarity to the mystery. Back on Earth, anchored to his own body, Will finds that there is little sense to make in the chaos. The predictable response seems unexpectedly empty somehow, and as his colleagues go through the motions to make sure he is indeed stable, Will’s wondering if he’s missed the point.
But his heart is beating. His vitals are stable. There’s no sign of brain damage.
Ethan wants to keep him for observation, but he’s impressed with the lack of residual side effects. He’s going to be fine, is the final pronunciation.
Will just isn’t sure what fine even means.
When Ethan is done, Will finds Jay sitting in the corner of his exam room. He knows Jay has been there this whole time. He knows because Jay’s always been there, even when Will hasn’t been.
“Well,” Will says, clearing his throat to break the silence. “That wasn’t what I had planned for the day.”
He attempts to laugh, but the sound is hollow in his chest.
Jay doesn’t return the attempt. “You died today,” he says instead.
The bluntness of it carries no malice. Jay isn’t trying to accuse Will of something. If anything, it’s a confession.
Somewhere between salvation and damnation. Purgatory can be a state you live in right here on Earth.
“Yeah,” Will says, the forced humor fading. “Sorry about that.”
Jay shakes his head wearily, and he looks at his hands for a long moment. “Did you even think?” he asks, and he looks up again. “Did you even think twice before you crossed that water?”
Will shrugs, feeling helpless in his answer. “I saw someone who needed help. How is she, by the way?”
“Fine,” Jay says. “She just got a shock, but she’s recovering. She’s the one who did this, by the way. She was the perp.”
Jay says it like it makes a difference. Like there’s still good and evil to discern, like black and white could still be a thing.
But people are complicated. Intentions can prove false. In the end, man is measured by something different entirely.
“It doesn’t matter,” he says. “I did what I thought I had to do.”
Jay exhales heavily. “If you’d just waited, Casey could have done it. He was wearing rubber boots.”
That’s a good point, but most decisions are not afforded an eternity to weigh the pros and cons. And, frankly, mistakes are made. Mistakes are always made.
Jay continues, his voice sounding raw. “I don’t get why you have to do it, every single time. Save people. Even when it’s the wrong thing to do,” he says. “I mean, you don’t have to play God, Will. Not every time.”
There’s no more room to fight, then. The vastness of who he is no longer has to be empty. It can be full, if he lets it. “You’re right,” he admits.
Jay’s brow immediately furrows. “I’m -- what?”
Will shrugs plaintively. “You’re right,” he agrees. “I don’t have to play God. In fact, I shouldn’t keep playing God.”
Jay has clearly been preparing for a fight, and for Will to cede his side so readily goes against the script. Jay grapples with that, and comes up short. “Then -- what?”
“Then, nothing. Or everything,” Will says. “I mean, I’ve screwed up a thousand times. I’m going to screw up a thousand more. But I know what I’m here for. I know I’m supposed to save people. I’ve never doubted that, even if I sometimes go about it the wrong way.”
“Sometimes?” Jay asks. “I mean, you do realize that you can’t save anyone if you’re dead.”
The point is well taken. Will lifts one shoulder. “Yeah, I know,” he says. “But it’s hard to remember sometimes. It’s my job to make life and death calls. Sometimes I forget that I can’t control everything. If someone’s got to be God, then it should probably be -- you know.”
He shrugs and makes a vague gesture while Jay doesn’t reply.
“I know that’s not your thing,” Will says.
“It’s not,” Jay says. Then, he seems to falter. “But--”
This time, it’s Will’s turn to be surprised. “But?”
Jay’s fortitude does not hold out. “But I saw you die, man,” he says, and it’s another confession. “You really think I wasn’t praying?”
It’s not a thought that’s occurred to Will. In his searching, he’s found the humility lacking in his faith. Next time he faces eternity, he wants to be confident of his terms. The thing about hope is that it is a contagious thing. And it never runs out.
“You were really praying?” Will asks.
Jay throws his hands out. “You were dead!”
It's an answer that makes sense. Because he is a man of contradictions, of good and bad, right and wrong, but it distills down into truth that is so vast, so intimate, that it cannot be denied.
“Huh,” is all Will manages to say. He looks at his brother with something like wonder. “So there really are miracles.”
Jay grunts, crossing his legs as he sits back in his chair. “If you learn some restraint after this, then I guess so.”
Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see.
And today, it seems, there is faith enough.
-o-
The three minutes of Will’s short death are the most excruciating three minutes of Jay’s long life.
Three minutes can be like the blink of an eye.
Three minutes can be eternity.
Lives are saved. People are changed.
And hope is born.