Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Buck’s saying my name. “You with me?” he asks, when I lift my head.
“Yes.”
He turns to face me. “Tell me what you’re carrying.”
I look down automatically. The med bag, usually Weston’s, between my boots. Jump bag strapped in, airway kit clipped on, burn sheets in the outer pouch. O2 secured.
After a couple of seconds, my mouth works. “Trauma bag. Airway. Burns.”
Buck nods and turns back around.
Weston takes the curve onto County Road 9 fast, but smooth enough to keep the rig balanced. “Smoke showing,” he says.
Buck leans forward to look through the windshield. “Copy.”
A column of dark smoke rises behind a line of trees, its size fitting the dispatch report. It’s not large, but it’s still enough to trigger a hard pulse behind my eyes.
Weston brings the engine in at an angle that leaves room for the next unit. Buck’s out of the cab before the truck fully settles. I step down more slowly than I want, focusing on the weight of my boots on the snow and gravel.
The house is a single-story structure with flames curling from a rear window on the left and smoke venting from the eaves. A middle-aged man in jeans and a thin coat is in the yard shouting a woman’s name. Another man is trying and failing to hold him back.
Scene, size-up, access, exposure. The steps fall in line, but my body needs to follow.
Buck directs traffic from the front corner of the house with the same efficiency he uses everywhere. Weston pulls the line and masks up, as a volunteer unit arrives, its tires kicking up gravel.
I go to the civilians. The man wearing the thin coat has burns across the back of one hand, and his hair is singed on one side. He’s coughing, but not struggling to breathe.
I get him seated on the tailgate of a pickup and take hold of his injured hand. “Look at me.”
The man keeps trying to twist away to see the house. “My sister’s in there.”
“What’s her name?”
“Lisa.”
“Where did you last see her?”
“In the back bedroom. I tried—”
“I know.” I open the water and begin cooling his burn. “You went in?”
The man’s jaw is shaking. “I couldn’t get down the hall.”
I call across the yard to relay the information to Buck, then focus on the man while he talks. There’s soot around his nostrils, but no obvious facial burns. His brows are intact. His breathing is elevated, but not critical.
I follow the structure and work.
It helps, until someone drags a salvage tarp across the yard, and the sound of the heavy material scraping across the ground becomes the sound of a body being pulled by webbing handles over dirt. I lose focus on what the patient’s saying.
Weston comes out to reset his air bottle and reads my face, but doesn’t look long enough to show concern. He crouches to eye level in front of my patient. “You’re doing fine. Stay seated.”
I step back before he asks me to, and Weston takes over, like it had always been the plan.
A moment later, Buck appears at my side over by the engine. “Victim’s out. Smoke inhalation. Medic’s six minutes out.” He doesn’t look at me straight on, a small courtesy. “Can you receive?”
Receive, not lead. Not take point.
“Yes.”
“Then do that.”
I clear space for the ambulance and set equipment. When the victim is brought out wrapped in a blanket, she’s upright and walking with the support of two men.
My brain stays where it belongs. Female, conscious, coughing, soot exposure, probably mild inhalation, no visible burns from this distance. Transport indicated. Reassure, relay, repeat.
By the time the ambulance leaves, the episode has receded to something I can contain, and the rest of the call passes like it should. Overhaul, ventilation, statements, equipment reset.
We peel off soaked gear and track frozen mud into the engine bay floor, and no one mentions the gaps.
CHAPTER 12
WESTON
Back at the station, I dump out the old coffee and start a fresh pot. Buck settles at the table with the posture of a man prepared to stay there until something useful gets said.
Calder’s leaning against the cabinet, and someone who didn’t know him well might think he’s relaxed, but he’s not.
Buck and I have seen Calder hit rough patches before, but it’s been a while.
I fill a mug directly from the brewer’s stream and hand it to Calder. “Here. It’ll give you the strength to keep holding up the furniture.”
He accepts it without comment and keeps leaning, until I take the box of cold pizza out of the fridge and slide it onto the table.
When they’re both a few bites into their first slices, Buck asks Calder, “What set it off?”
Calder’s jaw goes still for a full second before he continues chewing, and Buck waits him out.
“Dispatch,” Calder says after he swallows. “Possible victims.”
Buck nods as he chews his next bite.