“No.”
The woman in front of Noah touched his shoulder.
“Can you squeeze my hands?”
His fingers moved.
Weakly.
Both sides.
“That’s good,” she said.
It did not feel good.
They brought the stair chair.
I wanted to carry him.
The paramedics said no.
I almost argued.
Then remembered that loving him did not make me medically trained.
Noah allowed them to secure the straps without protest.
His head leaned sideways.
I followed them down the stairs, one hand on the rail and the other touching his shoulder whenever the steps allowed.
Caleb’s truck entered the yard as the ambulance doors opened.
He got out before parking properly.
“What happened?”
“He isn’t responding.”
His face changed.
“I’ve got the yard.”
“I’ll call.”
“Go.”
I climbed into the ambulance.
The siren began.
Noah blinked at the ceiling.
I took his hand.
His fingers did not close around mine.
The emergency department swallowed us.
