Page 9 of What We Break
I'm good at my job.
"Copy," Tony says, already reaching for the radio mic. "I'll prep the monitor."
I flip the switch. The sirens wail, bouncing off the brick walls of the station as we surge forward.
3
LAINE
"Brother, I understand the butterflies are beautiful, but I need you to focus," a man's voice drifts from the hallway. "Can you tell me your name?"
I'm adjusting my patient's IV drip, but I pause. There's something about the voice — patient, amused, warm — that snags my attention.
"The butterflies told me their names," comes the muffled reply. "But they said I can't tell anyone until I learn to fly."
My patient, a woman training for a marathon who passed out on a trail, raises an eyebrow. "Sounds like someone's having an interesting evening."
"Interesting is right!" I finish with her IV and check her chart. "Your blood work should be back in about an hour, okay?"
"I'm not going anywhere." She settles back against her pillows. "Though I might ask for some of whatever that guy's having. Flying sounds nice right about now."
I laugh and head toward the door as the conversation in the hallway continues.
"That's totally understandable," the voice says. "Flying does sound pretty great. But right now, I need to make sure you're okay. Can you wiggle your fingers for me?"
"My fingers are turning into feathers. See?"
"Woah. Those are some impressive feathers. Aerodynamic. Very... majestic." The voice is dry, calm, but underneath, there's a distinct vibration of suppressed laughter.
It's the laughter that has me smiling. Whoever this guy is, he'sgood. I've seen too many people get frustrated with confused patients — talking louder, like volume fixes hallucinations, or worse, getting visibly annoyed. This one's rolling with it like he does this every day. Maybe he does.
"Laine?" Joyce appears beside me. "We've got incoming. Medic's bringing in a festival casualty who thinks he's dissolving."
"Dissolving?"
"Apparently he's convinced his molecules are separating. Been sitting in the middle of Fifth Street trying to hold himself together."
I glance toward the next room where butterfly guy is still explaining his transformation. "Is that the same crew?"
"Probably. They've been running festival calls all evening."
The EMT emerges from room six, and I get my first look at him.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Rumpled uniform like he got dressed in the dark and didn't care. Dark hair that's going in about four different directions — the kind of messy that says he's been raking his hands through it all night, not the kind that says he spent twenty minutes with product. But it's the energy that registers first. He's not walking so much as vibrating, like his body can't quite contain whatever's happening inside it. When he turns, I catch green eyes — no, hazel, with green flecks — and a jaw that could cut glass, offset by a mouth that's already halfway to a grin.
My brain does this unhelpful thing where it stops processing medical information and starts processingotherinformation. Shoulders. Forearms. The way his uniform pulls across his chest when he turns.
Cool. Very professional. You're at work, Mitchell.
"Reid," Joyce calls. "What's the story on our butterfly friend?"
Reid.Filed away. Not that I'm filing it. Just... observing. Observationally.
"Patient's twenty-three, took something at the festival about threehours ago," Reid says, pulling off his gloves with a snap. "Had an ID in his wallet — Marcus Hamilton. Vitals are stable, but he's having some pretty vivid hallucinations. No aggressive behavior, just really committed to this whole turning-into-a-butterfly thing."
Joyce sighs and props her hands on her hips. "And the dissolving guy?"
"Tony's right behind me with him," Reid says, pointing a thumb over his shoulder at the automatic doors. "He's convinced his legs are liquid, so he's in the wheelchair."
