He was unconscious. A trickle of blood traced a path from his hairline down his temple, vivid red against ashen skin. His right arm, the one that had been trembling with life just minutes ago, lay twisted at an angle that made my stomach lurch.
"Miles, can you hear me?" My voice was high, frantic. "Miles!"
Airway, breathing, circulation.The nurse's mantra surfaced through the tsunami of panic. My hands went to his neck, finding a pulse… thready and rapid, but present.
"You're okay," I whispered, tears already streaming. "You're going to be okay. Stay with me."
A car door slammed. The driver, a young woman, maybe twenty-two, her face white with shock, stumbled toward us. Her phone was still clutched in her hand.
"Oh my god, oh my god, I didn't see him, I didn't see the stop sign, I was just?—"
"Call 911!" I screamed at her. "Now! Tell them pedestrian trauma, unconscious, possible head and spinal. River path at Maple. NOW!"
She fumbled with her phone, hands shaking violently.
I turned back to Miles, my hands moving to stabilize his head. "Don't you dare," I told him, my voice cracking. "Don't you dare do this to me. Not now. Not when we just?—"
I couldn't finish the sentence. Couldn't acknowledge everything we'd finally built, everything we were finally becoming.
"I'm sorry," I choked out, leaning close to his face. "I'm so sorry. This is my fault. I suggested the run, I made you race, I?—"
His hand twitched.
I froze, hardly daring to breathe.
"Miles?"
His fingers moved again, just slightly, a faint tremor that could have been his Parkinson's or could have been something else entirely.
"I'm here," I said, gripping his hand. "I'm right here. Can you hear me? Squeeze if you can hear me."
Nothing. His face remained slack, his breathing shallow.
"Please," I whispered against his forehead. "Please fight. You don't get to give up on us now. I beg you..."
The sirens started in the distance, faint at first, then growing louder. The driver was sobbing into her phone, giving disjointed directions. The sun kept shining, obscenely cheerful. The frost kept sparkling.
My mind raced through the clinical possibilities, each one worse than the last. Head trauma. Broken bones. Internal bleeding. Spinal injury. I couldn’t think straight.
I was trying to keep him steady. I wanted to hug him, but feared it could hurt him. All I could do was cry and pray.
"Stay with me," I murmured, my tears falling onto his skin. "Please stay with me."
The paramedics arrived in a blur of uniforms and urgent voices. Suddenly, there were hands everywhere, professional and efficient, asking me to step back.
"Ma'am, we need access?—"
"He moved." I couldn't let go of his hand. "His hand moved. He's in there."
"We need you to?—"
"I'm a nurse." The words came out sharp, defensive. "I know what I'm doing. His pulse is thready but present, breathing is shallow, possible head trauma and fractures to the right arm. He has Parkinson's disease, early onset, he's on carbidopa-levodopa, timing is critical for his doses…"
One of the paramedics met my eyes, his expression shifting from impatience to understanding. "Okay. We've got him. Are you family?"
"Yes." The lie came automatically. Or maybe it wasn't a lie anymore. "I'm coming with him."
They loaded him onto a stretcher, strapping him down with practiced efficiency. I followed them to the ambulance, climbing in before anyone could tell me otherwise.
