“Move back, Tex,” the paramedic says. “Let us do our job. Move out of our way.”
One of them is at his head now, both hands locking his skull in place. “Sir, don’t move your head,” the paramedic says. “Stay with me. Can you hear me?”
The cop’s eyes flicker open again. He’s still there. Barely.
The giant hasn’t moved. He’s right there at his side, gripping the cop’s shoulder so hard his knuckles are white, like letting go is the one thing he will not do. He will not let this cop leave this earth today.
“I got you,” he says. “I got you, Mickey. You stay with me, you hear me!”
A rigid collar slides around the cop’s neck, then gets locked tight.
“On my count. One, two, three.”
His body moves as a unit. They log-roll him just enough to slide the backboard underneath, then lower him down flat. They strap him in, chest and hips and legs. Hands moving fast from having done this a thousand times when every second matters.
“Load and go.”
They lift. The board comes up, the cop strapped to it, his head immobilized, his body no longer working right. And then they’re moving fast as a team through the bar.
The noisy bar of fifteen minutes ago is dead silent. The crowd parts without being asked. Every face turns to watch.
The giant is running along right beside them, one hand still on the board, refusing to lose contact. The paramedics obviously know him. They don’t fight him on it.
I grab onto the wall, pull myself up and follow right behind them too. Through the bar, and into the parking lot where the ambulance is waiting, the back doors thrown open, lights strobing red and white across everything.
They slide him in. The giant climbs in right beside him and nobody dares to stop him.
“He’s my best friend,” he keeps saying, tears pouring down his face and dripping into his beard. “He’s my best friend.”
Sheila stands beside me. Her hands and clothes are covered in blood, just like mine. The blonde guy is standing alone in the middle of the parking lot with the soaked dish towel. He’s watching the giant cry as if he’s the center of his universe. Sheila walks over to him, pulls him closer and her shoulders shake as she sobs.
Jesus Christ. What have I done? This is all my fault.
The doors to the ambulance slam shut. The siren hits a second later, tearing through the night, and the ambulance pulls away with flashing lights.
He’s gone.
I’m standing in the parking lot in white jeans soaked with both his blood and my blood. My shirt is ripped, my ribs are broken or bruised, and my lip is split.
None of it matters.
I’m in the middle of these people’s lives, in the middle of their pain, covered in the blood of a man I didn’t know an hour ago.
Sheila told me to leave. Three times. She saw this coming and tried to stop it.
I didn’t listen. Instead, I sat on my stool and blew a kiss to egg the men on. I corrected a man’s grammar while he was threatening me because when somebody tries to make me feel small, my first instinct is always to hit back.
All that happened and then a cop named Mickey stepped in front of a bullet for me.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I’m just a stupid wedding planner who wanted to watch the sunset with a drink. I didn’t mean to do this.
What have I done?
My legs give out and I drop to my knees.
Chapter 4: Benji
