Hayes kneels next to her. She’s calm and precise, assessing, hands checking vitals while her voice stays level. I kneel on the other side, med kit open.
“Kimball. Vitals.”
I take her blood pressure. Her pulse. I do it the way I was trained, steady, efficient, talking to her while I work because she’s scared even if she’s hiding it behind Leonard’s unforgivable step maintenance.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Dorothy. Dorothy Haines. I’ve lived in this house for forty-one years and this is the first time I’ve fallen on my own steps and I want that noted.”
“Noted.” I write down her vitals. “Blood pressure is 142 over 88. Pulse 96.”
“Is that bad?”
“It’s elevated, which is normal when you’re in pain and angry at Leonard.”
Dorothy Haines looks at me. Then she laughs, a short, sharp sound, and winces immediately because laughing hurts when your hip is wrong.
“I like you,” she says.
Hayes glances at me. The glance carries nothing visible, but I’ve been learning Hayes for two weeks and I’ve learned what nothing looks like when it’s actually something. We stabilize Dorothy’s leg, get her on the backboard, and load her into theambulance that’s arrived. The neighbor, Leonard, stands on the sidewalk looking guilty about the steps.
“Salt your steps,” I tell him.
“I was going to.”
“Salt them today.”
He nods. We clear the scene. Back on the engine, rolling through the neighborhood, the siren off now because we’re returning to quarters and the return is always quiet.
Torres catches my eye in the mirror. She nods. Rivera, sitting across from me, says nothing but her posture is a half-degree less formal than it was this morning. Walsh taps my boot with hers as we pull into the bay, a small physical contact that means more than any words she’d say.
Hayes writes up the report. I assist. She lets me fill in the vitals section myself.
“Your patient rapport is good,” she says. “Dorothy liked you.”
“I made her laugh.”
“You made her feel safe. The laugh was a bonus.” Hayes signs the report. “Next rotation we drill extrication scenarios. Bring clothes you really don’t care about.”
I bring clothes I really don’t care about. We drill extrication scenarios. Hayes times me and writes numbers and doesn’t tell me if they’re good and I run them again and again until my arms burn and my gloves are shredded.
By the end of the week, I’ve found my rhythm. The morning coffee. The equipment checks with Torres. Drills with Hayes. Lunch at the long table where I’ve moved from the end toone seat closer to the middle because Drew shifted over without being asked and the gap opened and I filled it and nobody said anything.
After lunch, I’m cleaning the kitchen when Cap walks in.
She pours coffee. Takes a sip. Looks at me.
“How are you settling in, Kimball?”
“Good, Captain. I’m learning a lot.”
“Hayes says your vitals work is solid and your patient communication is above average for a probie.”
I try not to react. Hayes told Cap something positive about me. Hayes, who communicates in nods and clipboard notes and single sentences that carry the weight of mountains, told Cap that I’m good at something.
“Thank you, Captain.”
“Thank Hayes. She’s the one doing the work.” Cap takes another sip. “Kimball.”
