Page 43 of Silent Bones
Stephen let out a low moan, almost a whisper. His eyes fluttered. Noah crouched beside him, careful not to touch.
“Stephen. Stephen, it’s Noah Sutherland, BCI. You’re safe. You’re okay. Who did this?”
The boy’s lips moved slightly, cracked and dry. No words came out. Just a strained breath.
Noah leaned closer. “Who did this to you? Do you remember what happened?”
Stephen’s eyes opened again, barely. His pupils were glassy, unfocused. He started to lift his hands, but they barely moved an inch. A spasm rippled through his chest. Then he coughed hard, and his whole body jerked.
“We have to take him!” the EMT ordered. “Get the gurney over. We’re loading now.”
Noah stepped back as they secured Stephen’s limbs and rolled him onto his side, slipping a backboard beneath him. The teen let out a small, gurgled groan.
He’s going to make it, Noah told himself. He has to.
They hoisted him onto the gurney and rushed him to the ambulance. Noah followed behind, heart pounding, catching pieces of radio updates and medical jargon: low BP, borderline hypothermic, possible concussion, signs of dehydration.
One of the EMTs climbed in and reached for the oxygen mask. Stephen’s head lolled.
Then his chest seized. His body arched slightly, once, then again.
A flat sound cut through the tension.
“Shit,” the EMT barked. “He’s coding! We’re losing him?—!”
“Get the paddles!” the other shouted.
Noah stood frozen just outside the rear doors, watching as they started compressions. The driver turned and yelled to someone, but it was all a blur.
“Clear!”
Stephen’s body jumped once. Nothing.
“Clear!”
No change.
The monitor beeped once, then flatlined again.
“C’mon,” the EMT grunted, sweating now. “Don’t do this. Don’t?—”
Another shock. More compressions.
Noah swallowed hard, fists clenched. “Come on, kid,” he whispered. “Hold on. Just a little longer.”
Inside the rig, one of the EMTs slowed his rhythm, then stopped. He looked to the other, who was still holding the defibrillator.
“No response,” he said quietly.
“Time?” the second asked.
The EMT checked his watch. “8:58 a.m.”
A long silence.
“He’s gone.”
Noah exhaled a single word. “Shit.”
