Two police officers ask me these questions. Responses fumble around my mouth. I think I answer, but it’s hard to know if the voice I hear is my own. One of the policemen walks me to an ambulance and helps me climb inside.
Red and blue lights flicker around me. Other ambulances. First responders, trying to gauge the situation. More policemen and women arrive, descending, digging, determining fault. The sky is dark, not light, but I’m transported back to that morning anyway.You need to come with us,they said.
Not tonight. Tonight I’m clearly the victim.
“Where’s Walt?” I ask the paramedic moving around in the ambulance behind me. I’m sitting at the end of the bay, the hard floor beneath me. If I had a blanket draped around my shoulders, I would look like a scene from a movie. Reality is alarmingly different.
The paramedic comes up beside me and steps down off the truck. She stands in front of me and asks for my wrists. “Who’s Walt?” she asks. I watch her turn my wrists over, and examine them. Her name is printed beneath an emblem on her shirt.Lori Turner.
“The old man. He was in the house with me.” I look at my house. Ginger’s house. The place that was supposed to be a safe haven for me.
She swipes a wet cloth over my wrists. “He’s being examined in another truck. No obvious injuries, just typical stuff that goes along with advanced age.”
I nod. Such a simple response that understates the swell of relief inside me.
Lori glides ointment over the abrasions on my wrist. She kneels and starts on my ankles.
“And the… other man?”
Lori looks up at me. “You mean the shooter?”
Another nod from me.
“They took him away already. He’ll likely need surgery.”
Eric Prince. Deranged. Despondent. Grieving. He needs help.
Lori finishes and stands. “You’re good to go. The abrasions on your wrists and ankles will heal. You’ll need to follow-up with your doctor, and tell them if any new symptoms arise. Take it easy for the rest of the weekend. The first few days following a traumatic event are difficult.”
In my case, it has really been the first twelve months.
Lori reaches for my shoulder to help me stand. She keeps a hand on me while I get my bearings. My legs are weak, I think more from shock than muscle failure.
“Thank you,” I tell her, stepping out from the protection of the partially open back doors of the ambulance.
Like Lori said, Walt sits in the back of an ambulance to my right. A paramedic listens to his heart. Walt spots me over the paramedic’s shoulder. His eyes close and his chin dips. It’s a gentleman-like nod, and it brings tears to my eyes. Growling, grumbling, junk-hoarding Walt wrestled a gun from someone’s hands.For me.
The paramedic starts talking, and Walt turns his attention to him.
“Brynn.”
A strangled voice reaches me. Soaked in fear. Dripping with relief. How can one word,my name, convey both those emotions? I turn, and the sight of him rips through everything I felt tonight. Suddenly I’m sobbing, and then I’m in his arms, burying my face in his chest.
“Connor,” I cry.
He brushes a hand over my hair. I look up at him. His eyes tell me the story of the terror he experienced tonight too. He cradles my cheek, his lower lip trembling. “I can’t believe… Tonight… That guy…” He shakes his head and doesn’t say anything else.
“I know. I know.”
Connor presses his lips to mine. It’s raw, a kiss between the wounded, the battered, the injured.
“All right, break it up.”
I pull away, very nearly smiling. I’ve never been so happy to hear someone’s voice. Stepping out of Connor’s arms, I step right into Walt’s. I hug him gently, even though I want to squeeze him tight.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“You’re worth it,” he whispers back.
