1
HANNAH
The radio on the dash beeps, alerting us to another dispatch. I swipe the radio off the hook, beeping into the call.
“OD, roughly seventeen, male.”
I curse under my breath. I glance over at my partner, Miles, who flicks on the lights and sirens.
“Unit 13, responding.” I listen to the little information that the dispatcher gives us, internally logging it. Moments later, we’re pulling up to the scene, a dilapidated house that slants to the left, barely standing up.
Police are already doing compressions on the boy. I snap gloves onto my hands, grab my pack and run toward them as soon as the rig slows to a stop. Miles will get the gurney and more Narcan, but for now, I need to get over to the patient and evaluate.
The officer doing compressions is one I’m familiar with. Thomas Cunningham. His face is red, eyes focused only on the young boy lying on the ground in front of him. I kneel beside him on the crunchy gravel and rest a hand on his broad shoulder, ready to tap him out.
Thomas grunts out his vitals in between compressions. When he last had a pulse, how long he’s been doing compressions, and when the last dose of Narcan was. I tap his shoulder again, urging him to let me take over. The second Thomas’s hands pull away, putting my all into making his heart beat again. Rocks burrow into my knees, sending sharp tingles of pain through my legs. I ignore it, focusing on the task. I count to myself, watching the small portable monitor next to his head, willing there to be cardiac activity on the screen.
Time passes. I don’t know how long with my own flight-or-fight activated, but it’s long enough that Miles taps me out, taking over as we fight to get this kid breathing again. After another minute, we load him onto the stretcher and into the ambulance. Miles and I switch again while he drives the rig to the hospital. Thomas climbs into the back with me, calling out orders for his teammates to follow us with his vehicle, as his K-9 German Shepherd, Arson, is in the backseat.
I give my everything to this kid, willing for him to breathe again. I’m so fucking sick of this. Too many kids have died on my watch in the last two years, and I don’t fucking want there to be another one.
“Two minutes,” Miles calls from the front. “Any rhythm?”
A bead of sweat rolls down my neck as I call out, “No.”
I hear him curse under his breath, and feel the jolt of rig speeding up. “Come on, kid,” Thomas says, his voice low and pained as he manually checks his pulse. “Switch.”
Nodding, I step back, trying to catch my breath while also checking his lines and the monitor. The vehicle jerks to a stop, and Miles flies out of the front seat.
The back doors open as the nurses run towardus, and I call out status report as I help move the stretcher down to the ground. They take him back, and I feel my adrenaline starting to fade. I don’t say out loud what I’m thinking—that at this point, they aren’t going to get him back. His body has given up. We’ve been doing compressions for so long, that even if they manage to get a rhythm back, his brain might not recover. There is no life left inside him. He’s only seventeen. He’s barely old enough to drive, and now he doesn’t even have a life left to live.
I pull off my gloves with asnap, throwing them into the garbage can by the entrance. Taking a moment to breathe, I find a sink and scrub my hands and arms clean. I typically won’t know if a patient has made it or not, that’s one of the things I have to come to terms with often as a paramedic, but right now, it sucks.
A body comes up behind me, standing at the sink next to me. “Hey,” Thomas murmurs, washing his hands. “They called it.”
Even though I had a feeling they would, that doesn’t stop the sinking feeling in my gut.
Unsure what to say to him right now or how to help when he's rightfully emotional over yet another loss, I simply nod. It doesn't help that I'm awkward in social situations. Performing my job or talking to my coworkers about cases I've worked on are a piece of cake, but mundane tasks like ordering a pizza, making doctors appointments, or small talk can send me into a full blown anxiety attack. Thomas should fall into the first category, since we've worked on scene for many of the overdoses over the last few years since the drug trafficking ring made its way into our small town. But, unfortunately for me, the fact that I find him extremely attractive and have little experience in that department, makes me anxious about his starting a conversation with me.
Thomas is nearly a decade older than me. Nine years and five months if we’re being specific. And god, now I sound like a psycho stalker. I’m not. I swear. I’m just really good at remembering birthdays.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt. “He was young.”
“Too young,” Thomas responds, ripping a paper towel off the automatic dispenser hung from the wall. He turns and leans against the stainless steel sink and looks directly at me.
Crap, there goes my stomach, giving me all sorts of butterflies and swirling feelings. And of course, my face turns red as soon as his attention is on me. Can’t forget that. It’ssupergreat. I can’t tell people how I’m feeling, but my face sure as fuck can.
In a way, I hope I’m still flushed from doing compressions so my blush isn’t so evident, but I’m not usually that lucky.
“I should get back out to the rig. Miles is probably ready to get back out.”
“What time are you off this morning?” Thomas asks, surprising me. He stands nonchalantly, running a hand through his loose blonde waves and hooking his thumbs in his Kevlar vest. Doesn’t he know how hot he looks when he does that? And why is he asking what time I’m off?
“Um—”I stutter, “Six.”
“Some of us are meeting up for coffee if you and Miles want to join us. Just for a debriefing. We try to do it after a rough night, but it hasn’t been happening lately like it should. You’re more than welcome to join. I’ll text Miles the plan.”
I swallow the lump in my throat. “Okay, sounds good.” I wave an awkward goodbye and stumble over my feet as I turn to head back to the ambulance bay.
