“Not rushed,” I say.
“Not rushed.”
We free the last section.
The paramedic gives the nod.
Then it is all hands and careful movement, controlled lift, Brian’s body finally coming clear of the wreckage and onto the board. He is grey, too still, but he is out. Ambulance takes over fully then, the way they always do, their urgency wrapping around ours and pulling it forward.
The air changes.
Not calmer. Never calm.
But the worst of our part loosens.
Brian is moved. Oxygen. Lines. Voices. Doors. The ambulance crew work fast, tight, focused.
For the first time since we started cutting, I realise I do not know exactly where AJ is.
My eyes go to the place I last saw him.
He's not there.
A cold, sharp panic hits me so hard I almost step wrong.
Not huge. Not visible, I hope. But there. Sudden and vicious.
Because he is not trained. Because this is not his world. Because we told him where to stay. Because scenes shift and bystanders move and vehicles arrive and equipment goes everywhere and one untrained person in the wrong place can become another problem in half a second.
Because I cannot see him.
“AJ?” I say, louder than I intend.
Dan looks up. “What?”
“Where’s AJ?”
“Was over there.”
He points, but I am already moving, scanning past the police car, the verge, the ambulance, the small knot of responders, the road beyond.
Then I see him.
He is standing beside Margaret near the open ambulance door.
She is wrapped in a blanket, one hand pressed to her mouth, the other gripping his like it is the only thing keeping her upright. AJ stands slightly turned towards her, his body between her and the worst view of the car without blocking her completely. He is pale. Very pale. But his voice is low and steady, and he is nodding as she speaks.
I slow.
The panic drains so quickly it leaves me light-headed for a second.
Then I hear Margaret.
“He hates hospitals,” she is saying. “Always has. Says they smell like boiled cabbage. I told him that’s not a reason to avoid them, but he never listens. Never has. Fifty-two years and he still thinks not listening is a personality.”
AJ’s thumb moves gently over the back of her hand.
“Fifty-two years?” he says.
