Clarence blinks slowly. Judgmentally.
"Yeah, I know. Bad idea. Getting attached to a six-year-old and her grumpy father who lives ten feet away? Recipe for disaster."
The cat yawns, showing an impressive collection of teeth.
"You're terrible at pep talks," I say.
He tucks himself against my hip and starts purring, which is either solidarity or the world's smallest electric blanket. Either way, I'll take it. The smart move would be sleeping — I agreed to cover the back half of a colleague's shift tonight, and my own 24 starts in the morning, which means I'm looking at thirty-six hours straight. The smart move is absolutely sleeping. I change into my uniform instead. Clarence watches me from the armrest with the expression of someone deeply unimpressed by my life choices.
The station is quiet when I get in. The crew I'm covering for is wrapping up — someone leaves a half-pot of coffee and doesn't say much on the way out, which is exactly the kind of handoff I can work with. I check the rig, top off my mug, and settle in with my partner for the coverage shift, Pablo — quiet, steady, the kind of medic who doesn't need to fill silence to feel comfortable in it. We work well together for the same reason.
This is the time of a shift where nothing happens for hours and then everything happens at once.
The call comes in during the dead hours before dawn---the time when nothing good ever happens.
"Ambulance Seven, respond to Route 10, mile marker forty-two. Single vehicle accident. Caller reports vehicle off road, injuries unknown."
Pablo cranks the wheel and the rig lurches onto the highway. He doesn't talk---never does during responses---and neither do I. He drives, I prep, and neither of us fills the silence with nervous chatter.
Route 10 winds up into the mountains---postcards in daylight, treacherous in the dark. The headlights sweep pine trees and guardrail, guardrail and pine trees, the road narrowing as we climb. We find the car twenty feet down an embankment, nose-first into a boulder. The front end has crumpled like paper. Even from up top, I can smell the radiator fluid.
"Visual on one occupant," Pablo says, grabbing the trauma bag.
I follow him down the slope, my boots slipping on loose gravel, my breath making small white clouds in the mountain air. The driver's still in the seat---conscious, which is good. Airbag deployed, which is better. Blood on his face, which is less good but manageable.
"Sir, can you hear me?" I crouch at the broken window, already assessing. "My name's Gemma. I'm a paramedic. Can you tell me where it hurts?"
He's maybe sixty, grey-haired, glasses knocked crooked. "My leg. Can't move it."
"Okay, we're going to take care of you. What's your name?"
"Richard. Richard Holt."
"Richard, I need you to stay still for me while we figure out the best way to get you out." I signal Pablo, who's already radioing for extrication.
The work is textbook. C-spine precautions, vitals check, IV access while Pablo stabilizes his leg. Compartment syndrome risk is low but present---the dashboard has him pinned at an awkward angle. We'll need fire to cut him out.
"You're doing great, Richard," I say, taping off the IV line. "Fire's on the way. They'll have you out in no time."
"My wife." His voice cracks. "She's going to kill me. I promised her I'd take the highway."
"Well, once you're patched up, you can blame us for keeping you overnight for observation. Buy yourself some sympathy points."
He laughs, then winces. "You're good at this."
"Thanks. I've had practice," I say, already checking his pupils again. Easier to keep moving than to sit with the compliment.
Station 7's engine arrives with lights and sirens. The crew moves with efficient precision---a mix of the offcoming and incoming shifts, Aiden directing, someone else managing the Jaws. Beck's there too, making his way to the passenger side with a flashlight, its beam sweeping the crushed door frame. In that light, his expression is what it always is on a call---focused, unhurried, already three steps ahead.
"Lockhart," he says. Just my name, but there's a question in it.
"Stable. Possible femur fracture, vitals holding. He's all yours," I tell him, already stepping back to give his crew the angle they need.
He nods and turns to coordinate with his team.
Twenty minutes later, Richard Holt is on a backboard and heading into our rig. Pablo climbs into the driver's seat. I settle into the back with my patient, keeping up the steady one-sided conversation that's as much about Richard not thinking too hard as it is about anything I'm actually saying.
"Doing great, Richard. We'll have you at the hospital in no time."
