Page 64 of Asystole

Throwing my covers back, I go through my morning routine at five p.m., smiling when I see Chase’s note and pull out the meal he left for me.

Perhaps feeding each other counts as a conversation.

Perhaps it counts as more.

I press delete on that thought, finish my meal, and get ready for work.

Carlos is still filling out paperwork from his last flight when I clock in.

“It’s rough, man. Be ready.”

“The flying or the calls?” I ask, opening my locker to make sure my gear is exactly how I left it.

“Both,” he answers.

“That chopper’s been a hearse more than a medical transport today,” he says in a somber tone.

“Oh, shit. Anything I can take off your plate?” I offer.

“I still need to restock. We had to wait for an MD to pronounce the patient DOA. They tried to tell me and my flight nurse to get him prepared for the OR, but my flight nurse did fourteen rounds of CPR en route. The guy wasn’t coming back. I don’t know why people insist on going out in this shit.”

If only it were as simple as staying inside. But here we are, him and me, out and about in this foul weather because we have to work. People rely on us. And those people out there have families relying on them. Sometimes staying in isn’t an option.

“Yeah, no problem,” I tell him. “I’ve got the restock. You finish up and get out of here. Be careful going home. The roads are worse than the skies,” I tell him.

He gives me a tired laugh.

“I don’t know about that. The snow is really coming down, and it’s mixed with ice.”

“Come talk to me after you do a search and rescue in Montana at two a.m. with blizzard-force winds throwing you sideways, nowhere to land while your fuel gauge freezes, and you’re running on nothing but blind luck and adrenaline.”

That was one of the scariest nights of my life, but also one of the most thrilling. Stone and I did shots together in the dark back in his office once that run was over.

Then it hits me: Chase was right.

Stone was around for every situation that made me feel alive. Maybe I somehow confused my love of high-stakes flying with the man who did it all with me.

It’s certainly food for thought, but that particular meal will have to wait until later.

Pushing through the doors to the roof, a gust of wind threatens to slam the door on me as I step toward the helipad.

“Jesus Christ!” I yell into the wind as snow and ice pelt my face. There are already close to two inches of precipitation up here.

I climb inside the chopper and drop the bag of supplies I assembled from the sheet Carlos had filled out. As I’m restocking the chopper with medical supplies, the wind is rocking the helicopter, and I hate to admit it, but Carlos has some fucking balls flying in this shit. At least in Montana, I just had to avoid the side of the mountain. Out here, you’re dodging skyscrapers, billboards, and most dangerous of all—power lines.

When the chopper gets rocked again, I realize that whoever allowed Carlos to fly in this shit is a fucking moron. He can’t help anybody if he’s dead.

Making my way back inside half an hour later, I march straight to the physician’s lounge to talk to my boss, the director of aviation operations.

Not caring that it’s well past eight o’clock at night, I dial his number and wait for an answer.

“This is Mark.”

“Mark, Logan Kirkland here. We gotta talk about this weather.”

He aims for a joke, but I’m not in a joking mood.

“Wouldn’t think a mountain man like yourself would mind a little snow,” he says.