“Copy that. Officer?” the dispatcher says with a questioning tone.
“Yes?” I respond.
“He said he’s fine, if that’s any consolation. Just needs you to help him stand. He used his life-alert.”
Well, that’s one positive. He’s been refusing to wear itlately, but who knows how long he would be on the floor if he didn’t have it on.
“Copy. Thanks.”
Another voice radios in. “Unit thirteen responding to assist.”
Hannah.
Her voice is soft, but strong at the same time. She’s secure in her work, never has been timid or shy when it comes to her job. It’s something I can appreciate about her.
I breathe out a sigh of relief.
At least if he was lying about potential injuries, I’ll have other professionals to back me up in convincing him to take a ride to the hospital. Like I said, he’s a stubborn man.
Less than five minutes later, I’m throwing my vehicle in park outside of the independent living facility. I leave the car and the air conditioning running for Arson, and tell him I’ll be back shortly.
I run through the automatic doors and head down the hall toward Gramps’ room. A few of the residents move out of the way as I shuffle down the hall. When I reach his door, I knock once and push inside. “Gramps?” I call as I glance quickly around the kitchen.
“In the bedroom,” his low voice calls.
I rush down the hall to find him sitting on the floor beside his bed. He looks unharmed, and honestly, a little content to be sitting on the floor. “Causing trouble again, I see?” I ask with the little humor I can manage to muster right now.
“As always, kid,” he says. I crouch down in front of him, glancing over his aged body to assess him for any injuries. He looks okay. He’s in his long pajama pants and white undershirt, white-gray hair a tousled mess from sleep.
“Hurting anywhere?”
He shakes his head. “I told that nice lady that talked to me on my fancy necklace that I was okay, and to tell you not to worry.”
“She told me,” I tell him. “You know I’m not going to not worry, though.”
He lets out a heavy sigh. “I know. Worth a shot, kiddo.”
“Seriously, Gramps. Do you hurt anywhere? Hips? Arms? Legs?” I insist.
“Just my ego,” he says, slightly defeated.
“EMS!” A booming male voice calls from the door.
“Back here!” I yell.
The shuffling footsteps and swishing of pant legs gets louder with each step they take toward the bedroom door. Miles enters first, with Hannah close on his heels. They both have blue medical gloves on their hands, first aid bags resting on their shoulders.
“Mr. Cunningham,” Miles greets him. “Pleasure to see you again, wish it were under better circumstances.”
“You too, kiddo,” Gramps says.
I step back to let them do their jobs, all while trying not to stare at Hannah. She has her hair in a braid, and a few stray pieces are falling into her freckled covered face. My fingers twitch in my pocket to reach out and push them away for her.
“Earl, are you having any pain anywhere?” Hannah asks as she takes a set of vitals.
“Nope,” Gramps states. “Though my heart hurts a little.”
“Your heart?” she asks, grabbing her stethoscope to listen. My own heart rate picks up. Why didn’t he say anything sooner? Is his pacemaker not working? “Are you having any shortness of breath?”
