Page 58 of Scout
Bradley stands too, instantly alert. “What is it?”
“My sister—Juniper—she was in an accident. I need to get to Evanridge. Now.”
His keys are already in his hand. “Come on. I’ve got you.”
We move fast, weaving through the crowded bar. Everything’s a blur. The clinking of glasses, the thrum of music—it all fades under the roar in my ears.
Outside, the night air is sharp and biting. Bradley unlocks the car and I practically dive in.
My hands are shaking.
“Fuck,” I whisper, pressing my palms together like a prayer. “She was just… she was fine when she called me on the phone.”
“She’s gonna be okay,” Bradley says as he starts the engine, his voice calm. Reassuring. “We’ll be there soon.”
The tires squeal as we pull away. I stare out the window, counting my breaths, trying not to lose my shit. I should’ve gone to get her. I should’ve insisted. I should’ve known better than to trust her mom.
“Please be okay, Junie Boo,” I whisper. “Please, just… be okay.”
Beside me, Bradley doesn’t say anything. He just drives a little faster.
22
Xavier
The intercom crackles overhead,jolting me from my charting.
“Code Red incoming. MVA. ETA four minutes.”
I stand up, adrenaline already coursing through me. The trauma team springs into action, each member knowing their role. I pull on a fresh pair of gloves and a sterile gown, mentally preparing for the unknown.
Moments later, the first ambulance speeds into the lot and stops in front of the door. Seconds later, the back of the rig bursts open.
A young girl, who can’t be more than a preteen, if that, lies on the gurney. Her strawberry blonde hair is matted with blood, and her blue eyes are wide with fear and, I’m sure, pain.
“Female, twelve years old,” the paramedic announces. “Single vehicle, guardrail passenger side, then head on into a tree. She was seated on the passenger side. Seatbelt kept her in the vehicle. Laceration to the scalp, deep slash on the right arm. She’s in shock but talking and reactive.”
We wheel her into Trauma Bay Two.
“Her mom is behind us. In pretty bad shape,” the paramedic adds. “The police called her next of kin. They should be here any minute.”
The girl grabs my wrist as we position the gurney. Her hand is sticky with blood, trembling.
“Is my mom okay?” she asks. “She wasn’t waking up.”
I meet her eyes. “She’s on her way in right now, and we’re going to do everything we can for her, okay? But right now, I need to take care of you.”
She nods, lips trembling. Her breathing's too fast, borderline hyperventilating. I gently squeeze her hand before letting go.
“Let’s get an IV started—normal saline, wide open,” I say, scanning her body for secondary injuries as I speak. “Prep her for CT. Full trauma panel. Cross and type. Monitor vitals every five.”
A nurse slides the mask back over her face. “You’re doing great, sweetie,” she says, brushing damp strands of blood-matted hair away from her forehead.
The team moves with practiced ease. One nurse inserts a large-bore IV, fluid already dripping. Another adjusts the monitor, calling out a blood pressure that’s borderline low.
“Second unit’s pulling in now. Trauma three,” the charge nurse calls.
I rush to meet the next ambulance.
