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I feel the heat of her breath against my neck.
“Barely.”
“Okay. Keep monitoring her breathing. If she stops breathing at any point, I need you to communicate to me what is happening, and I can walk you through steps to clear her airway and give her CPR until the ambulance arrives.”
“Okay,” I breathe back, hating how easy it is for me to breathe and how hard it is for her to breathe. If I could give her all my breaths right now, I would.
But all I can do is keep running forward and hope I make it there in time. So close.
I run faster.
Then I see the road. I hear sirens in the distance.
“We made it, Millie. We made it,” I say out of breath from running.
The ambulance roars to a stop in front of us, and the paramedics jump out, racing to take Millie from me and put her on a stretcher. One of them stops in front of me.
“You riding with us?”
“Yes, I’m her husband.”
He nods, and I follow him into the back where they’ve already loaded Millie into the ambulance and begun working on her. She has an oxygen mask on and an IV in her arm.
The second the door shuts, the ambulance starts flying.
“Is she…?” I ask one of the paramedics who is administering medicine through her IV.
“My job is to get her to the hospital alive, and I will. You’ll have to talk to a doctor about her long term prognosis.”
I nod and don’t ask any more questions as we drive. Millie’s hand is within reach, so I take it and hold onto her, giving her all of my comfort and hope.
“You got this, Millie,” I whisper.
We arrive at the hospital, and the doors fly open. I hop out and curse when my foot hits the pavement, but I don’t give a damn about my foot. All I care about is Millie.
The paramedics pull Millie out on a gurney and then pass her off to a team at the hospital. I try to follow through the doors when a nurse stops me.
“You’ll have to wait here,” she says.
“But I’m her husband.” I hold up my hand with my ring like I need to prove that I’m her husband or something.
She nods. “Come with me.”
I follow her, and then suddenly she stops outside a door. “Sit on the exam table, and I’ll have someone examine your foot.”
“My foot is fine; my wife isn’t. I won’t leave her.”
“Get your ass on the table so I can set your foot quickly while the ER docs look over your wife. They won’t let you in the room anyway, and you won’t be any good to her with a broken ankle.”
“My ankle isn’t broken.”
She raises her eyebrows. “I’m fifty-three years old. I’ve been doing this a long time. I know a broken ankle when I see one. I know you want to be with your wife, so give me twenty minutes to set it and put it in a cast to heal it until you have an orthopedic doc take a look. Or you can be stubborn, in which case I’ll make you wait for a doc to look at it, which could take hours before you see your wife. Now, which will it be?”
I frown, ready to argue.
“Twenty minutes. I promise I’ll get you to your wife as soon as they will let you see her.”
“Fine.” I step inside the room, trying to prove to her that my ankle isn’t broken, but there is no hiding it.
