Sprinting down the hall, banging my shoulder into the wall, shoving the front door open so hard it hits the stopper. The siren is right outside now. The red and white lights flash across the parking lot, painting everything in jump cuts.
“Here!” I wave my arms.
Two paramedics and a firefighter hop out of the rig, gear clanking, faces already in that focused, professional mask. One of them, a woman with her dark hair in a tight braid, looks up. “Miguel?” she calls.
“Yeah,” I say. “Yeah. This way.”
I backpedal, leading them down the hall, and then we’re in the bedroom and the room is suddenly crowded. They move with terrifying, efficient speed, one dropping a bag by the bed, the other snapping on gloves, checking Caleb’s airway, his pupils, and his wrist.
I flatten myself against the wall to get out of their way.
“What’d he take?” the woman asks without looking up.
I thrust the bottle at her. “These. I don’t—there were like ten? Twelve? I don’t know how many?—”
“We’ve got it,” she says. “Thank you. When did you find him?”
“Like… five minutes ago?” Time is a joke. “I came home, and the door was locked and he didn’t answer?—”
She nods, filing that away as she slaps a blood pressure cuff around his arm. The other paramedic is rubbing Caleb’s sternum hard with his knuckles, voice low and firm. “Caleb? Hey, Caleb. Buddy, wake up. Can you open your eyes for me?”
Caleb groans, the sound deep and slurred. His eyelids flutter again.
Relief hits me so hard my knees almost go out.
“He’s trying,” I say, voice barely holding together.
“We’ve got you, man,” the paramedic says to him. “Stay with us. Big day, huh? No more surprises like this, okay?”
He glances at me. “You did good calling it in,” he says. “We’re going to take it from here.”
I nod, even though it feels like he’s asking me to demolish a building with my bare hands. “I’m coming with you,” I say, my jaw clenching around the words. It’s not a question.
He nods. “Yeah, we’ll make room.”
They slide an oxygen mask over Caleb’s face and start an IV in the hand that isn’t bleeding. He jerks a little at the needle, a weak flinch that makes my heart clench. They work fast and quietly, the room filling with the beeps and zips of their equipment.
Somewhere behind me, the operator is still on speakerphone, his voice tinny from where my phone landed on the dresser. “Miguel? Are they there?”
“Yeah,” I say. “They’re… they’re here. They’re—” My throat closes.
“I’m going to disconnect,” he says gently. “You’re in good hands now. Take care of yourself, too.”
The line clicks dead.
I want to laugh.
Take care of yourself.
Right.
They get Caleb onto a backboard, then onto the gurney. His arm is bandaged, with white gauze over the cut. There’s a smear of blood on the sheet and on my jeans where I knelt.
He looks small on the stretcher.
Caleb never looks small.
His head rolls weakly as they start to wheel him out. I move to his side like there’s a string pulling me there, my hand finding his and wrapping around it, careful of the IV line.
