Page 67 of Double Exposure

“I love you, Carter Weston.”

I know he can’t hear me.

΅

I see Brock first, then Ross and Riley. They slide down the embankment and within minutes the forest floor looks like an emergency team site. Before they even lift him to the gurney, Riley is on the ground beside him pulling an arm out for a blood pressure reading.

Brock and Ross don’t even bother with the trap.

Brock tips his brother’s head back and Carter looks like death. He’s unresponsive. “Shit.”

I back away, afraid I’m in the way. Afraid I am going to lose this man in the same week I found him.

Brock turns to Ross. “Get the pack on him and we need to get him out of here.”

Then he kneels down and waves me over to help. Together we find the hinge for the trap, the spring, and the pin.

“Ready,” he says to Ross.

Ross shakes his head “no.”

“Riley,” calls Brock.

She squats down with a fence cutter and jams in into the snow, while Ross finishes adjusting the medical tourniquet.

Finally strapping in place the way he wants Ross nods. “Go,” he says.

She cuts the pin and the spring rolls out into the snow. The jaws of the trap are now useless. Gripping either side of the trap, both men start to lift both halves away.

“Straight, then?” asks Ross.

“You got it,” says Brock.

The next moment Carter’s leg is free. Riley cuts away what’s left of his pants. The calf muscle is chewed, clawed to pieces. I put a hand over my mouth.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” says Brock, but I don’t believe him. They wrap the leg in bandages just as Carter starts to stir.

My heart breaks. I don’t want him in any more pain.

“Well, here are you are, asshole,” says Brock with a manufactured grin.

Carter tries to say something, but he just closes his eyes again. Riley takes another reading and when he opens his eyes, she whispers in Brock’s ear.

“We need to transport, now,” he says.

Ross wants to check the leg more. “Now? But we—”

“Now,” says Riley, and there is no more discussion. Ross packs everything up in half a minute. Thirty seconds later we are headed to the helicopter.

΅

The ride to Morrison Hospital takes twenty minutes. Everything seems either speeded up or slowed down. I hear Riley on the radio saying thigs like “hemorrhagic shock,” “estimate thirty-five percent blood loss,” and, “possible amputation.”

I sit on the floor of the chopper holding Carter’s hand. His fingernails are as blue as his lips.

There is no banter, just the sound of the blades doing their work, and the raspy exhales from the handheld respirator as Brock squeezes, forcing air into Carter’s lungs.

“Unresponsive,” is the fourth word that ices my heart.