"Sir, we're dispatching EMS now. Does she appear to have taken opioids?"
"Yeah." My eyes find the discarded needle, the burnt spoon, the small bag of powder. "Heroin, probably fentanyl cut."
"Do you have Narcan available?"
"No."
"EMS will be there in approximately eight minutes. Please stay on the line and?—"
I hang up.
Eight minutes is too long. She might not have eight minutes.
Decision made, I gather her into my arms.
She weighs nothing, a ghost of the woman who used to ride behind me, arms tight around my waist, laughing into the wind.
As I carry her down the stairs, her head lolls against my shoulder, hair matted and greasy against my neck.
The guys on the porch scatter as I emerge, cradling her limp body.
"Ambulance coming," one calls out. "Should be here soon."
"Not waiting." I manage to mount the bike while holding her, positioning her in front of me, her back to my chest.
Her head falls back against my shoulder, and I secure my left arm around her waist while my right hand grips the throttle.
Not safe. Not even close to safe. But I'm not letting her die in this shithole.
The Harley roars to life, and I peel away from the curb, Vanna's body a dead weight against mine.
I take the turns slower than before, hyper-aware of her, but still push well beyond any legal speed limit.
As we race through the deserted downtown, past the brick buildings of High Street that have survived since the coal boom days, memories flash through my mind.
Vanna at seventeen, golden hair flying as she ran across Mountaineer Field after hours, daring me to catch her.
Vanna at nineteen walking down the aisle in a secondhand dress, eyes bright with promises we were too young to understand.
Vanna at twenty-five, screaming that she hated me, hated this town, hated the life we'd built, as I flushed her pills down the toilet during her first attempt at getting clean.
The accident happened a year before—simple rear-ending on University Avenue, whiplash and a herniated disc.
The doctor prescribed Oxy without blinking, and by the time I realized what was happening, the prescription had run out and she'd found other sources.
The five-way intersection where Beechurst Avenue meets Campus Drive is deserted this time of night.
I blow through the red light, hunching over Vanna's limp form as I push toward Ruby Memorial Hospital, the massive medical complex looming ahead.
I skid to a stop at the emergency entrance, nearly dumping the bike with how much I’m rushing.
"Help!" I roar, lifting Vanna's unconscious body. "Active OD!"
Medical staff swarm immediately, taking her from my arms, placing her on a gurney.
I follow as they rush her through the sliding doors, rattling off vital signs and medical terminology that means nothing to me.
"Sir, you need to wait here," a nurse tells me firmly, blocking my path as they wheel Vanna through another set of doors. "We'll take good care of her. I need some information."
