Page 106 of Lucky Shot

9-9-9. I need to call—oh bollocks. What’s the American equivalent?

9-1-1.

I grab my mobile out of my pocket and dial.

“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?” a woman asks.

“Hi. Uh, I need an ambulance. She’s on the floor. She’s completely out of it. Please. Help.”

I cradle her in my arms, shaking her to try and get a response.

“Sir, is she breathing?”

“Yes. She is.”

“And what seems to be the problem?”

“I—I don’t know. She didn’t show up for work. I found her on the floor. She’s—burning up. I need help. Something’s not right.”

“Okay. I have help on the way. You’re at 3356 Pinwheel Court?”

“Yes. Unit twenty-four. No. Twenty-two.” I can’t think straight. All I can focus on is how her head lolls to the side.

“It’s twenty-two, sir?”

“Yes. Twenty-two.” What happened to her? “How long till they get here?”

“They’re on their way, sir.”

“Her name. It’s Whitney Barnes. You need to know that, right? Female. Twenty-five. I think. The back door is open. I . . . hurry. Please.”

“They’re coming. Stay on the line with me as we wait.”

“Okay. Yes. I—C’mon, Whit. Wake up. Please wake up.”

Minutes feel like hours. Like days. But sirens grow closer and within seconds I’m being shoved out of the way as two paramedics push their way into the small space with their bags and equipment.

“Drugs?”

“Huh?” I ask as a pair of competent blue eyes meet mine.

“Any history of drugs that we need to be aware of?”

“No. Of course not. She’s . . . is she going to be okay?”

“That’s why we’re here,” she says before I’m pushed farther outside so they can work on her.

They call out numbers for vitals. They push some kind of medicine. They throw terms around that make this seem even scarier, if that’s even possible.

And before I have time to process the events, she’s loaded into their ambulance with a crowd of people looking on and rushed off to the hospital with me staring after it and with my heart in my throat.

It only takes a few seconds for the adrenaline to hit. For my body to shudder and shake and my teeth to chatter as I stand there utterly helpless and lost.

I need to go after her.

I broke her door. Her things. This neighborhood. Fuck.

“Is there anything you need to get for her in there?” a woman asks softly at my back.