I unlocked the gates while speaking to dispatch, then ran back upstairs. Noah remained curled on the couch where I had moved him from bed, the quilt drawn around his shoulders. His eyes were open but distant.
He did not react when strangers entered the apartment.
One paramedic knelt in front of him while the other opened a medical kit on the table.
“Noah, I’m Rosa. Can you tell me your last name?”
Nothing.
“Do you know where you are?”
His gaze shifted toward her voice.
No words.
She checked his pupils, grip, facial movement, blood pressure, oxygen, and blood glucose. Her partner asked me questions.
Previous brain injury.
Surgery.
Current medication.
Time of last normal conversation.
Stress event.
Headache.
Sleep.
I answered too quickly and had to repeat myself.
“He spoke last night,” I said. “A few words. He knew me. He knew she was gone.”
“Who was gone?”
“His mother.”
The paramedic looked up.
“What happened?”
“She arrived unexpectedly. There was an argument. He became overwhelmed and developed a severe headache.”
“Any fall?”
“No.”
“Did he strike his head?”
“No.”
“Vomiting?”
“No.”
“Seizure activity?”
