“We got a pulse!”
A rush of adrenaline has both of us in a flurry of movements as we secure the stranger to a board Hat brings in through the front door and load him up in the back of the bus.
I hook him up to a monitor that beeps its recognition of his heartbeat, then clean a space in his elbow for an IV as Hat pokes him.
We’re back on the road within two minutes, but even with the bumpy ride, I find myself just staring at the translucence of his slack face as I bag him. How pale he is. How thin his skin looks.
What made you this way?
There’s a strong jaw, despite what appears to be malnutrition. Some muscle definition as if maybe he works a labor job rather than hits the gym.
An empty house at midnight.
Taking enough pills to…
Biting down on the inside of my cheek, I force myself to clean up as best I can with one hand instead of just staring at the limpness of him.
“It’s okay,” I whisper to him. “It’s okay.”
I don’t know why I do. I don’t know him. Once he gets inside those glass doors, there’s nothing more I can do. He’ll be out of my hands and under someone else’s care, just like everyone else.
We just have to get him there first.
But there’s something about that hair sweeping over his face. It’s light, a contrast to the darkness of him, that’s got my sight seeking him out repeatedly. Watching his chest barely lift with each compression of my hand.
He looks like he’s my age.
Bile burns the back of my throat, and I swallow hard.
“It’s almost burrito-o’clock, man,” Hat calls from the driver’s seat. He’s joking, but it’s a somber, almost desperate thing, that’s said with barely enough volume to be heard over the sound of the sirens wailing around us.
My stomach churns.
“Yeah …”
The doors are flung open before I realize we’ve even stopped moving, and a team of scrubs are pulling our gurney from its tracks. I follow until someone else takes over the bag and suddenly I’m standing just outside the hospital entrance watching as the stranger is swallowed up by staff in the rush of the emergency. Pulling away from me. Disappearing from sight.
I didn’t even find out his name.
It’s not uncommon for us to end up with nameless patients. Unidentifiable transports. Searching for ID’s on unconscious bodies is the last thing on my mind, but this one … it feels too close.
A violent heave catches me off guard, and I dart across the pavement to the trashcan, emptying the contents of my stomach. It burns through my nose and throat, landing mostly in the can, and I curse.
What makes me any different than him?
Another wave flies into the can and makes my eyes water.
“Don’t fight it.”
Pressure fills in between my shoulder blades.
“Not.”
“Uh-huh. That was a fucking rough one, man.” Hatley circles that hand, and I focus on it, allowing it to pull me back. Tether me to the cement poles holding up theemergencysign. Place me back in my boots with the toes touching the mesh layer around the outside of the trashcan.
“Yeah.” I cough and shutter, spitting a mouthful of chunky saliva into the can. “Never easy.”
I feel Hat nod more than I see it through the tears I blink back and accept the paper towel he hands me.
