Page 3 of The Trauma Response
“It’ll be all right. You still got all of them but a nasty cut on that left one. I’m sure the hospital will get you all fixed up.” He shifts his weight and relieves more of the pressure on my neck. I have no idea at this point if I have injuries to my spine, but I’m not sure I’d know if there are. I wiggle my toes and am delighted I feel them.
The rain slows further. I blink a few times to orient myself. Outside of the car, all I see are legs and feet, the shine of lights on the wet road, and an upside down forest to my left. Another blink and my eyelids grow too heavy to open again.
“Open your eyes,” the man says, but I can’t.
Haziness fills my mind and a warm sensation envelops my body. The last coherent words I hear are the man’s pleading, begging me to open my eyes. But I can’t.
Chapter two
Three months ago…
This storm is relentless, and I’m nearly spent after only twelve hours on shift. Swanson expertly maneuvers the truck while the rest of us prepare for the next call, a kitchen fire that the owner already extinguished, but they’re concerned they didn’t do it correctly. I sigh, frustrated that people don’t learn basic fire prevention anymore. Still, it’s better than another car accident.
“Engine 27, reroute to Tucker Street. Deer versus car, car has flipped several times, one unconscious and badly injured occupant, paramedics en route.”
Never mind. Another car accident it is.
“Ready for another extraction, Gray?” Swanson glances in the rearview mirror and makes a right turn to take us in the opposite direction. We’re still the closest to the accident scene, so it’s likely we’ll reach it before the ambulance.
“Yes, sir,” I say and try not to think about what we might find. Rollover accidents in this kind of weather rarely have good endings.
“There’ve been a lot of deer versus car on that road lately. This one is the third this week,” Kempler says. The truck sways and rumbles down the road, passing cars who barely pull off on the side of the road. If it were their loved one in a death spiral, they’d probably move faster.
“Not a lot we can do about it,” Swanson says. “Looks like it’s only another half mile up the road. Lots of cars up there.”
“This isn’t the first rollover though. Wonder if we went to city council if we’d have any sway. Try to get some better fencing put up to detour the deer somewhere safer to cross,” Kempler adds. He’s got big dreams, but not even the eight foot fences keep the deer off this road.
“Nah, the fences down around the turn don’t do any good. I don’t know what can be done, especially if the county won’t release more funding. Refocus and get ready. There’s a show,” Swanson says and pulls the truck to a stop beside a nearly crushed sedan.
“Gray, see what it looks like from the front end. Kempler, check the doors. Paramedics should be here in three minutes. Might as well assess and see what we can do.” Swanson pushes his door open and starts barking orders at the dozen or so people surrounding the flipped car. Once they’re out of the way, Kempler and I get to work.
I crouch down and settle on the road in front of what used to be a windshield and nod at an older man. He clutches a woman’s hand. “She passed out about two minutes before you got here. I can’t wake her up,” he admits.
“Got ya. Was she vocal before she passed out?” I ask while encouraging him to scoot out of the area so I can get a betterlook at her and what we will need to do to extract her from the wreckage.
“She was. Said a sentence or two. I know she was scared, but I don’t know much else.”
“All right, I’m going to need you to scoot out so I can check her out,” I say.
“But you’re not a paramedic,” he argues. It’s not unusual for people to feel defensive over a victim when they’ve spent a lot of time trying to make sure they’re okay and comforting them while they wait for first responders to arrive. His protectiveness is normal, fatherly even.
“We’re trained EMTs as well, sir. I assure you, I’ll do everything I can to make sure she’s okay, but I need to assess her so we can figure out how to get her out of the car, all right?” I try to be calm and use an even tone, but every part of me wants to push this guy out of the way so I can do my job. I understand where he’s coming from, but at the same time, he’s wasting valuable minutes this woman probably can’t spare.
Finally, he relents and lets me slide into the small space he occupied. It’s difficult with my turnout gear on, but I don’t have a choice. The woman is covered with blood, though it all appears to be coming from her hands and arms rather than her head or chest area.
I pull my flashlight free and try to see where the blood ends and she begins, but when the beam crosses her face and her eyes whip open, I startle. She gasps and her eyes dart around until they meet mine again.
And my whole life, all twenty-nine years of it, flashes before my eyes because if not forthiswoman, I wouldn’t have had the last fifteen.
Tallulah Whitmore’s terrified gaze latches on to me, and it’s exactly the same as it was the day she saved my life. When I woke up, her bright blue eyes were the first thing I saw.
“Ten bucks says you can’t do a double backflip off the high board,” Jackson said. His wet hair stuck to his forehead and his grin puffed his freckled cheeks.
There were two things I knew for sure. One, there was no way I could do a double backflip, let alone from the high board into the Olympic-sized pool our neighborhood shared with two others. And two, even if I did, it wouldn’t be pretty and the aftermath would be painful if we got caught.
“You know what my mother said,” I reminded him.
“She’s not here, and you’re a chicken. Admit it, the real reason April broke up with you was because—”
