With the position of the car against the tree, the thick grass, and the lack of incline in the road, I don’t have to worry about the car moving, so at least we’re stable there.
I catch her body against mine as I open the door, pushing it out of the way so I can properly assess her status, and her body melts against me. I grab my phone from my back pocket, turning the flashlight on, and shining it into the car to make sure there isn’t anyone else in there.
“Holy shit.”
Is that a car seat?
Panic surges through me as I move the phone’s light and try to angle my head to see the child—baby?—in it. I haven’t heard a single sound, no screaming or crying coming from anyone in the car, and it isn’t until I see the car seat is empty that I let out an exhale.
Thank fuck.
The woman’s head is against my chest, her small body being held up by the seat belt she thankfully had on. Her face is covered by her dark brown waves matted with blood, the skin of her uncovered arms marred with cuts and scrapes.
I reach down to carefully move her, so she’s sitting back in the driver’s seat, and that’s when I notice she’s in nothing but a thin satin nightgown, the pink material stained with dark red spots and stretched over a swollen belly.
Fuck.
I need to assess the situation and get an ambulance here as soon as possible.
Reaching over, I feel around for the level to flatten the seat as low as it can go.
“You’re going to be okay,” I say—a small part of me hoping she responds to my voice but knowing it’s a long shot because she’s clearly unconscious.
Once she’s as flat as I can get her, I tilt her head back and lift her chin, using my phone’s flashlight to check her airway, and noting the slight yet steady rise and fall of her chest.
She’s breathing.
I let out an audible sigh. “Atta girl,” I whisper, my shoulders shrugging with relief.
Her long lashes frame her closed eyes, and the pale skin of her face is stark against the dark interior of the car and the dried streams of blood coming from what is most definitely a head wound.
I carefully move her hair resting over her shoulders, the waves soft against my calloused skin, and press two fingers to her neck, finding her pulse just under her skin—slow and thready but there.
ABCDE
Airway, Breathing, Circulation, Disability, Exposure
One, two, and three are done, and she’s clearly a “U” on the AVPU scale—she’s in no way alert and isn’t reacting to my voice or the pain of her injuries. Her unresponsiveness worries me along with the bruising and swelling around her eye—I don’t think the crash caused that kind of damage.
Carefully using my thumb to lift her eyelid, I shine my phone’s flashlight to assess her for any signs of neurological damage, and my mind immediately goes blank.
Her blue eyes are some of the brightest I’ve ever seen, the color reminding me of when the sunlight hits the water, andI wish I was looking at them under different circumstances because I can see myself getting lost in them the same way I do when I’m on the lake.
I watch as her pupils constrict under the light and dilate when I take the light away; another wave of relief hits me, my own eyes closing for a brief second.
“Miss? Hello?” The voice I heard earlier is much clearer now, and I realize it’s probably been asking for a response for the last however many minutes that have passed since I opened the car door. My eyes open, and I finally notice the small stream of light coming from the passenger side floor.
“Hello?” My voice sounds so loud in the quiet of the night.
“Hello? Who am I speaking to?” the voice on the phone asks.
“Jack,” I answer. “Who's there?”
“This number called 911 about ten minutes ago, but the caller must have passed out after giving me her name and telling me she’s been in an accident. An ambulance is still a few minutes out.”
“I found her on the side of the road. She’s unresponsive but breathing. Her airway is clear, and her pulse is thready, but she’s holding on. She’s got multiple lacerations all over her exposed skin, but no obvious head trauma,” I rattle off, knowing that this information is more important for when the paramedics get here, but I can’t help the rush of protectiveness I have over this woman, wanting the operator to know that I’ve got her. “And she’s pregnant.”
“Pregnant?” the operator echos, followed by a muffled curse.
