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Peach invaded her wraithlike pallor, cascaded from high cheekbones down her neck. Then lower. To that narrow strip of taut, glistening flesh between the two undone buttons of her long-sleeved khaki shirt…
Why was she still smothered in it anyway? She must have left Mikhael’s clothes on to guard against the hypothermia associated with shock and blood loss. But almost everyone else was down to their underwear to minimize sweating in the stifling heat, warding off inevitable dehydration. Not that it was working. Most people had already collapsed. But not Gulnar. He wondered what kept her going. What kept her shirt on. Not that keeping it on reduced her effect on him.
Without another look at her, he assembled his laryngoscope and picked an endotracheal tube. She fidgeted. May as well give her something to do. Without looking at her, he said, “Assess circulation, gain venous access and start fluid replacement while I intubate him. Just a liter to boost his blood volume and improve his blood pressure. Too much fluid after such blood loss isn’t advisable because—”
She interrupted him. “Because it would dilute his blood and coagulation factors, leading to acidosis, hypothermia and coagulation failure. Death by over-zealous resuscitation.”
All right. Score one for her emergency medicine knowledge. She was for real, then.
She finished recording blood pressure. “Eighty over fifty. But since his shock isn’t due only to hemorrhage but also to dehydration, his remaining blood must be concentrated. In the absence of blood volume booster alternatives I don’t think we can afford not to give him more fluids.”
So not only for real, but real good, too. And absolutely right. But he did have an alternative. “I would’ve recommended far less fluid to start with if I hadn’t taken that into account. A liter is enough. He needs whole blood after that.”
“Whole blood? Where will we get that?”
“From me.” Her slanting eyes rounded. He elaborated. “I’m O-negative, the universal donor. And you’ll come in handy here. Better you than me drawing my own blood one-handedly. But first I’ll secure Mikhael’s airway and breathing.”
He moved towards the woman holding Mikhael’s head in her lap, tried to replace her—but the woman was having none of it. His soothing didn’t work this time. His glance darted towards Gulnar. “What did I do this time?”
Gulnar’s shrug was sort of apologetic. “I’ve taught her to perform a jaw thrust and told her to keep him like that, that if she didn’t he’d suffocate on his tongue.”
It was only then that he noticed—the woman was holding Mikhael’s jaw thrust forwards. The optimum position to keep a patent airway.
Gulnar turned to the woman, rapping out rapid Azernian, her voice riding the exotic intonations, making music of every stress and release in every syllable. It was incredible how she switched between languages like that, how each sounded so authentic, so effortless. So elegant. How many more languages did she know? Did Italian feature among her linguistic talents?
Finally the agitated woman slumped, slithered across the floor to let him replace her at Mikhael’s head, and sat a few feet away, whimpering. He raised one eyebrow at Gulnar as he positioned Mikhael’s head in his lap.
She sighed. “It took some convincing to make her believe you’re not with the militants, that you’re a doctor and would take care of Mikhael. I even had to lie a bit.”
“What about?”
“I told her your name and she said it sounded Italian and I took advantage of that, lied to boost her trust in you.”
“And the lie is?”
“That you’re related to the most famous humanitarian international operative the region has known, Lorenzo Banducci.”
Now, that was completely unexpected. An incredulous huff escaped him. “Lorenzo! Son of a gun. Is he still around?”
“He left the front line about a year ago.” Was that regret filling her sigh? Whatever it was, he didn’t like the sound of it. Not one bit. “He’s in Africa now, working with and married to Sherazad, a doctor who’s worked with us here.”
Dante turned his attention on Mikhael as he absorbed this, started suctioning his throat, and was stunned to find it clear. He raised his eyes to her.
She answered his unvoiced question. “I’ve kept his throat clear of secretions and his airway patent with a straw.”
“Very resourceful!” He injected Mikhael with a muscle relaxant in lieu of anesthesia as he was already comatose then introduced a nasogastric tube down his throat and into his stomach, decompressing it and guarding against regurgitation of gastric secretions into the respiratory tract.
“The tube isn’t yielding blood,” he commented.
“Great. So the stomach and intestines aren’t injured.”
He nodded, aligned Mikhael’s neck, tilted it backwards. “So you’ve worked with Lorenzo?” Which was the essence of stupidity as questions went, since she’d already said as much.
“Yeah, sixteen months. That’s counting the two months during which he’d been abducted.”
So she’d kept strict count of the months with and those away from Lorenzo!
Oh, grow up! And say something neutral. “Lorenzo and I crossed paths a few times, swapped a lot of notes, and it was good to let rip in Italian again. But we can’t be related. I’m only Italian-American.” OK, that didn’t sound too neutral. Lorenzo was more than a passing acquaintance. He was a friend, for heaven’s sake. It wasn’t his fault Gulnar had clearly had an eye for him. And the man wasn’t here any more. Happily married, too. He hoped.
