Page 29 of What We Break
"Jesus," Tony mutters as we pull up.
Fire's already here, working on extricating someone from the middle car. I can hear the jaws of life cutting through metal. Two other ambulances are on scene, plus state patrol directing traffic around the mess. At least five people sitting or lying on the shoulder. Some walking wounded, some not.
"We need you on the elderly man in the blue sedan," a Lieutenant calls out. "He's conscious but showing signs of internal bleeding."
Tony grabs the trauma kit while I get the backboard. The blue sedan is accordion-folded against the guard rail, driver's side completely smashed. How the hell is anyone still alive in there?
The man inside is maybe seventy, gray-haired, conscious but pale. Too pale. His lips have that grayish tint that means shock and blood loss. His seatbelt probably saved his life, but his steering wheel is pushed back six inches. That's a lot of force. A lot of damage.
"Sir, can you hear me?" I call through the broken window. "I'm Reid, I'm a paramedic. We're going to get you out of there."
"I can hear you," he says, voice thin but clear. Good. Conscious and responsive. "My chest... it hurts to breathe."
Of course it does. Probably broken ribs, maybe punctured lung. Maybe worse. "I know. We're going to take care of that. What's your name?"
"Warren. Warren Dubois."
Tony's already on the radio calling for additional support while I assess Warren through the window. Rapid pulse—I can see it in his neck. Shallow breathing. Possible internal bleeding, which means we need to move fast. This guy needs surgery, not field medicine.
Warren reminds me of my neighbor growing up. He used to let me and Blake help him with his garden. And by help I mean we'd eat everything we dug up while Jared "supervised," which meant he ate twice as much as we did. I can almost feel the sweet pop of the peas on my tongue, hear Jared laughing with his mouth full. This guy has the same gray hair, same kind eyes. Fuck.
"Warren, I need you to stay still for me while my partner and the fire department get this door open, okay? Don't try to move."
"Okay," he whispers.
Fire gets the door cut away, and we can finally get to Warren properly. Tony and I work without talking—we've done this enough times that we don't need words. Cervical collar first, then backboard, IV access. Warren's vitals are getting worse. Blood pressure dropping, pulse getting faster. His body's trying to compensate for blood loss, but it's fighting a losing battle.
"Let's get him to the hospital," Tony says quietly. "Now."
Right fucking now.
We load him into the ambulance, and I'm in the back with him while Tony drives. Warren's conscious but fading. I'm pushing fluids,monitoring his breathing, doing everything I can to keep him stable until we get to people who can actually save him.
I love what I do, but sometimes I wish I could do more. Be more. Like some superhero with healing powers that could just fix this shit with a look.
"Am I going to be okay?" Warren asks.
Fuck. I hate this question. "We're nearly at the hospital. The doctors there are pros," I tell him. "They're going to take good care of you."
It's not exactly an answer, but it's honest. Warren needs surgery, and he needs it now. I've seen enough trauma to know when someone's circling the drain.
Tony's driving fast but smooth. He knows how critical this is. We're at the hospital in eight minutes, which feels like an hour.
"Trauma bay two," a nurse calls out as we wheel Warren through the doors.
"Seventy-year-old male, motor vehicle accident, suspected internal bleeding, vitals declining." Too fucking fast.
Dr. Cervantes appears immediately. "What've we got?"
"Warren Dubois, high-speed rear-end collision, steering wheel compressed his chest, showing signs of internal bleeding. Blood pressure's been dropping steadily, pulse rapid and thready."
A hand touches my shoulder, and I glance up to see Laine beside me. For a split second, she's all I can see—those dark eyes, that calm focus. Her steadyness makes me feel like everything's going to be okay, which is weird as fuck.
Reality crashes back. Warren's dying, and we need to hand him over now.
"Blood pressure started at 140 over 90, now it's 100 over 60. Pulse was 85 at the scene, now it's 110. Respiratory rate's shallow, around 24. We've got him on fifteen liters of O2."
Laine's already moving, checking Warren's pupils with a penlight while Dr. Cervantes listens to his chest. Her hands are steady, professional. She knows what she's doing.
