“We got a knife fight calling our names. Let’s get it.”
And so, we do.
Ain’t no rest for the damaged.
Chapter 2
Tristen
“Pass me the hotsauce, Ten.”
Biting the small cap, I twist it free and spit it into the open go-bag next to me, then dump a layer on Hat’s offered burrito.
Some of it drips onto his pants when he takes a huge bite and lands among the already present red stains tinting the dark blue fabric an almost black.
It’s also dripping down his chin, his burrito-filled fist, and instead of being a civilized human, he just slurps the shit up with puckered lips.
I snort and dump some of the sauce onto mine.
I’m beyond exhausted. Past the point of tiredness where I’m running on fumes and survival instincts to keep my eyes open. I’m covered in blood that’s not mine. More piss. Dirt.
Add hot sauce.
Each breath feels like I’m breathing in sludge and every muscle hurts. My headache is pounding deep inside the base of my skull. It’s taking every bit of effort I have to just lift my arm and take a bite.
But this burrito.
The sun came up two hours ago. The end of our shift has come and gone.
And yet, here we are parked at the look-out, gritty and gross, perched at the open back doors of our ambulance as the rest of the city comes back to life. People flock to work and school drop-off lines. The small coffee shop at the edge of downtown for their pick-me-ups.
The only drive-through burger joint already has cars wrapped around the building thanks to their new breakfast menu.
“Dispatch to ambo-1-2-2.”
“Choo, choo!” Hat and I both call out into the small valley that holds Barren Ridge with lifted burritos and chuckles as we have on every call since taking over this bus.
“You make us sound like a train, Dispatch,” Hat says into the radio attached to the barely-there shoulder strap on his uniform. “What do you got?”
He releases the button and takes another huge bite, only to freeze with a mouthful when he’s answered. “Behavioral, police need assistance.”
Swallowing the bite whole, he meets my gaze for half a second before tossing the rest of his breakfast into the grass and taking off around the rig with me.
“1-2-2, responding,” I radio as Hat throws us into drive and speeds over the bumpy dirt road.
We’re on scene in less than six minutes, loading up the screaming woman just four minutes after that.
She’s alone. Pale. Dirty and squeezing my hand to death along the way, and yet all I feel is nauseous.
There’s no mental health facility in town.
She looks homeless.
Which means as soon as we get her to the hospital, they’ll sedate her, give her meds she probably doesn’t need, and send her on her way.
She’ll be right back in it tomorrow. Either dead or addicted to the things they feed her tomake her better.
It’s a garbage system.
