My eyes locked onto the man my body wanted to trust. Broad shoulders shielded my child as I placed him in Montana’s arms. My glare warned Montana to remain statue-still with my baby. No questions. No moving!Hell, don’t even breathe wrong!
I spun, eyes locked onto a man—white hair, ruddy cheeks—clawing at his throat. His eyes bulged, lips turning blue. The blonde at his side pounded her age-spotted hand on his back.
“Ma’am, don’t! It’ll make things worse!” I barked the order. Suddenly, I wasn’t in the Creole restaurant on Royal Street. I landed in the trauma bay at an equally upscale, private hospital. “Move aside!”
She did, trembling.
A peach decorative pillow fell while I slipped behind him, braced my stance, and hooked my fists under his rib cage, then executed a swift, practiced thrust. Hard. Upward.
He wheezed, body convulsing for air.
Crap.
“C’mon,c’mon,” I muttered.
The Heimlich wasn’t working.
His body sagged. My strained muscles almost caved when Montana appeared. The sight of himnotholding my most prized possession halted my impulse to save a life.
My glare should’ve slapped the taste from his mouth and all those perfect teeth.I trusted you with my son!
“Don’t worry. Momma has Darius,” he said, helping me bring the man to the polished herringbone floor. “Ambulance is five minutes out.”
Unable to trust a soul, I spent precious seconds I didn’t have seeking Darius. Miss Virginia tucked him in her protective embrace near the office hallway.
Zuri, chill, he’s safe.But this man wouldn’t be.
My mind snapped into ER mode. The hushed whispers morphed into the hum of a ventilator. My fingers pressed against the older man’s throat, finding the small hollow between the Adam’s apple and the cricoid cartilage. Training took over.
I dug into my apron. Pulled out more napkins while the man’s eyes crushed closed.
“What do you need, Journey?” Montana sat on his haunches.
“A straw.”
Someone chucked one in Montana’s direction, and I snagged a steak knife from the linen table, dunking it into the Creole Kool-Aid Royale. I prayed the vodka sterilized it enough.
“You don’t need to watch this,” I suggested to the wife.
Blood pooled at his throat as I made my quick incision.
I pressed my fingers into the cut, moving tissue and muscle, slid the straw in, and crossed my fingers. For one heart-pounding second, nothing happened.
Then air rattled through the straw, allowing the man to breathe.
The room exploded with applause. His wife dropped to her knees, clutching his hand, kissing his face.
I sat back hard on the floor, my own hands slick with blood, and wiped them on the apron.
Montana’s face.Lawd. He wasn’t just looking at me. He sawme. Zuri Caldwell, MD.
Felt good.
Frightening.
And prompted me into action.
I tore the bloody apron off and rushed toward my son. As if Virginia understood my need to get away, she carried him toward the office. She tossed a silent plea over her shoulder.Don’t take him.Virginia had a deep maternal connection to Darius. I followed. Behind me, Montana ordered, “No pictures, please.”
