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Thoughts of his brothers, who’d invited her and James into their mix without judgment.
“Michael,” she whispered, the name echoing back to her through the mask. “Michael, please don’t be in here.”
“Blondie!” yelled Irish, his voice muffled behind his own mask. “I’ve got a body. Grab his feet.”
Her heart stopped.
Then her brain caught up, letting her training kick in. A patient needing assessment, just like any other rescue.
A body didn’t have to be Michael. It didn’t have to be one of his brothers.
Yeah, like there’s some random guy lying in the middle of the kitchen.
But she was moving now, and that’s all that mattered. She couldn’t see for crap, but she caught hold of ankles and lifted when Irish said he was ready.
Ankles. Good. Ankles could mean anyone. They’d get this guy outside and assess his condition.
She wasn’t fooling herself.
The body hung limp and heavy between them. Hannah’s flashlight bounced and arced along the smoke as they made their way through the foyer, never quite lighting on the patient’s face.
Then they were through the broken front door, into the frigid night air, into the bright lights from the fire trucks and ambulances.
Michael.
No surprise. No shock. She’d known, from the minute she’d picked up his ankles.
She choked on another breath and was glad she still wore the mask, feeding oxygen into her face. She was lucky to recognize him, his face and clothing were so filthy and caked with soot. His head lolled back, his face slack, with dark smudges around his nostrils. Smoke inhalation, for sure—how long had he been in there?
They got him on the ground. Irish was speaking into his radio, calling for an RSI—a paramedic trained to insert a breathing tube.
Holy shit—that meant Michael wasn’t breathing at all. Hannah yanked her helmet and gloves off and flung them into the grass. She pressed her fingers against his carotid artery, searching for a pulse.
“Call for more on rescue,” she said in a rush. “Four other people live in that house.” She shifted her fingers, searching. “Come on, Michael,” she whispered, putting her face down close to his, feeling for breath. “Come on.”
Nothing.
She was distantly aware of Irish beginning chest compressions. Of firefighters rushing up the steps behind her, preparing to search the house.
When Irish called out the count, her training kicked in, and she bent to press her mouth to Michael’s. She should be using a bag and a mask, but she didn’t care. He didn’t have the two minutes it would take for her to run to the truck.
His lips were ice cold. She tasted soot on his skin.
He wasn’t moving.
“Damn it!” she yelled between breaths. “Where the hell is the RSI?”
Oscar Martinez, a guy she’d gone through fire school with, spoke from beside her. He was a full paramedic, but he couldn’t intubate. He was trying to thread an IV needle into the back of Michael’s hand. “Next house over. Some teenagers got the whole family out the back, but they’re in bad shape. We’re waiting on another ambo from station fourteen.”
Michael couldn’t wait that long. How long had he gone without a pulse? How long had he been in that house?
He’d sent her two text messages today. She hadn’t bothered to read either of them because she’d been too pissed at the way he’d been blowing her off.
Two text messages. Two frigging text messages. How hard would it have been to read them?
Hannah choked on her breath again. “Come on,” she whispered. She pressed her hand to his cheek. “Come on, Michael. Wake up.”
No response. She blew another breath into his mouth, but his chest barely rose.
