“Congratulations, rookie. You graduated from kindergarten,” Dean mocks.
Reed groans and his eyes swirl around the room. I ease his head to the side.
“Okay, boys. I think I’ve got it from here,” I say, escorting them both to the door.
The husky guy next to Dean turns around before reaching the exit. “I’m Logan Murphy, by the way.” I swear his voice rattles the walls with how deep it is. I shake his outstretched hand.
“We may not have met until now, but I heard a lot about you today.” His amused eyes flash to Reed. “I’ll tell your dadwhere he is.”
“Thanks,” I say.
And as much as I try to dodge Dean, I nod goodbye in his direction.Please, forgive me, his expression reads. The same one he had yesterday morning on our hike. But I turn away and ignore it.
By the time I make it back to Reed’s side, he’s looking more than pale. I’m afraid he’s about to puke. I find an emesis bag, place it over his mouth, and push on his back to tip him to the side—a movement that takes all of my body weight to accomplish.
Sure enough, he vomits. When he’s done, he rolls onto his back on his own. With the contents of his stomach purged, he no longer looks green but flush. I graze the backs of my fingertips over his forehead.
Fever. I need to cool his body temp.
I dispose of the soiled bag in the nearest wastebasket and grab the first block of ice I can find. Recalling my conversation with Ben earlier, I slide it in a clean barf bag and hold it to his forehead. If we were at my childhood home, I’d be using a cold washcloth or a bag of frozen peas. But it’s probably for the best. This medical grade slab feels far less intimate.
When I press it softly against his forehead, he wraps his fingers around my wrist, pulling me closer to his face.
Okay, not more intimate thanthis.
“I’m not any good at letting people in.”
There’s a deep sadness to his voice he’s hiding behind, and as much as I promised myself I would keep my distance, I want to strip it all away. Find out what it is that makes him feel unworthy of being cared for. But he’s not in the right mental or physical place for that kind of conversation.
I try to make light of it instead. “Mr. Cocky is not talking himself up anymore?”
“I think I like being around you,” he confesses. But it’s notaccompanied by his usual perma-grin. Instead, he looks terrified to say it out loud. I doubt he means it in the way most people say it. We’ve known each other for barely three days. He’s delirious and woozy and fighting a serious case of dehydration. That’s a one-way ticket to a local hospital and out of this job if I don’t get him in a better place.
“And I think I need to give you an IV to get some fluids in your system.” I dodge his comment. “I’m going to need you to keep your arm straight and relaxed for me, okay?”
“Yep,” is all he says back as his eyes wander around the room. The fact that he’s still conscious is the most important thing, but I hope I didn’t hurt his feelings.
Warm water douses my hands as I scrub them with soap. I towel them dry and squeeze on a pair of Latex gloves. An antiseptic wipe, a tourniquet, an IV catheter, and tape are all the supplies I gather on a metal tray beside Reed’s bed.
If there was ever a time to be thankful for the extra courses and service hours I completed to get my advanced EMT license, it’s right now. I’d need Ben’s help to break the skin if not, and I don’t want him in here.
“This might feel cold,” I warn him as I swirl the sterile wipe over the crook of his arm.
He drags his eyes to the spot but doesn’t flinch.
“A little pressure,” I say next, and wrap the stretchy band tightly around his bicep. With the push of my pointer and middle fingers I work the inside of his elbow, searching for the right vein. None of them have the bouncy feel they should.
I slide his arm off the bed.Come on, gravity,do your thing.
Ten seconds,twenty,thirty-five,sixty. I keep time with the digital clock on the wall.
I lay his arm out once more and feel again. A vein in the center bulges slightly. It’s not ideal but it should work.
“Okay, little pinch,” I warn him, and then prick the skin. I feed the catheter in until I see blood.
There.
With a pull, the tourniquet releases, and I tape the catheter in place.
