I ask the paramedic what’s going on, and her answer punches straight through my lungs: “Wildfires gone out of control.”
My pulse flares as if I’ve been injected with pure adrenaline. Josh must be out there, in those fires. And I have no way to reach him or to know if he’s okay. I tell myself to breathe, to concentrate on what’s in front of me, but the panic creeps closer with each new patient that rolls through our doors.
The ER transforms into a triage room, colored tags assigned to the incomings—red for immediate, yellow for delayed, green for minor, black for… I can’t even think it. Family members are separated into waiting areas while medical staff prioritize the most critical cases. The acrid scent of smoke and burned plastic saturates the air, clinging to everything and everyone.
I move from patient to patient, checking pulses, filling out medication orders, calling security when bystanders threaten to overwhelm the nurses’ station with questions about loved ones. On the outside, I’m acting normal, but my hands shake. I keep glancing at the clock, at the door, at my phone—no messages from Josh. It vibrates only with trauma updates from the hospital system.
At the first lull, I duck into the supply closet and pull out my phone. I text Josh:
Lily
Are you okay?
I stare at the screen, willing those three dots to appear, but nothing happens. I hit the call button. It rings once, twice, then goes to voicemail. His voice, recorded and distant, tells me he can’t come to the phone right now.
I hang up without leaving a message, then delete the call from my history like it’s evidence of a crime. What am I doing? We aren’t a couple. He doesn’t owe me a bulletin of his whereabouts.
But my heart doesn’t care about what’s proper. It’s too busy imagining the worst.
I wipe my clammy hands on my scrubs and head back out into the fray. Another burn victim has arrived, a teenage boy with patches of angry red skin along his arms and torso.
His mother clutches at my arm as I check his vitals. “He said he saw a firefighter fall,” she tells me, her voice cracking. “Can you tell me if he made it out?”
My stomach lurches. “I’m not sure,” I say, keeping my tone gentle and professional. “We’re doing everything we can for everyone who comes in.”
She nods, too numb to press further, and I excuse myself to grab more sterile dressings from the supply cart. My legs are unsteady beneath me as I shoulder my way into a resuscitation room where a young man’s breathing is ragged and labored.
“They found him crawling out of the brush, suffering from smoke inhalation and first-degree burns to his back,” a paramedic informs me, handing over his chart. “Said he was looking for his dog.”
I nod, connecting the man to monitors, checking his oxygen levels. Sweat prickles at my scalp, but I don’t notice anything—not until I glance at the monitor and see the time: hours have passed and still no word from Josh. My heart pounds so hard I feel it in my fingertips.
I’m changing an IV bag when yet another gurney is pushed in. I look up just as they wheel in a firefighter, this one unrecognizable under a mask of burns and swelling. His turnout gear is blackened in places, the department patch barely visible beneath the soot.
My entire body turns cold as I move toward the gurney. Is it Josh? Please don’t let it be Josh. I fixate on the man’s boots, the shape of his hands, searching for anything familiar that might tell me who lies beneath those bandages. The doctor checks his pupils, revealing brown irises.
It’s not him. The relief hits me like a slap, immediate and guilt-ridden. I have to lean against a wall to keep upright.
“Lily?”
Ellis, the head nurse, is standing beside me. I didn’t even hear her approach.
“You okay?” she asks, brows furrowed with worry.
“I’m fine,” I lie, straightening up. “Just catching my breath.”
She studies my face for a moment longer, then shakes her head. “No, you’re not. Your hands are shaking, and you’re pale as a ghost.” She places a firm hand on my shoulder. “You’re done for the day, Lily.”
“What? No, I’m fine. We’re swamped. You need me here.”
“You’re panicking. This”—she gestures toward the burn victims—“is too much. You don’t need to relive it.”
I open my mouth to argue, but she cuts me off.
“Go home, Lily. That’s not a suggestion. I understand.”
No, you don’t, I want to scream. She must assume this is about Daniel, about how he died. But it’s about another man…
I can’t complete the thought as guilt and shame burn through me.
