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“I can’t. I can’t. Don’t push on them.”
“I’m not going to. I won’t move my arm. Did someone get your knees?”
“My r-ribs. And gut.” Nate loses his breath again. “Everywhere. Hit my head.”
“Knife or fists?”
“Fists but ithurts.” The siren is even closer now, and Nate starts to panic. “You can’t tell them I’m alone. Please, I can’t go back to that place. Rather die here.”
Gabriel’s voice gets softer, but his tone is firm. “You’re not alone. The only place you’re going is the hospital, and I’m going with you. When you’re all patched up, we’ll come back here. You’re going to be okay.”
“Really hurts.”
“Not for much longer. That’s the first thing we’ll deal with.”
“My fault.”
“It’s not. And even if it was, I’m still not leaving.” Red, flashing lights paint Gabriel’s street. The ambulance’s sirens cut out. “They’re here. You made it. Just rest. I’ll take it from here.”
Two paramedics, a man and a woman, carry a stretcher up onto Gabriel’s stoop. It’s a tight fit, so I step down and watch from what seems like a huge distance but is only a few feet.
There’s no smooth transition from stoop to ambulance to be had. Most teenagers I’ve known wouldn’t be caught dead holding onto an adult’s sweatshirt for dear life, but Nate won’t let go of Gabriel’s.
My heart aches for him so intensely that I press a hand to my heart.
“Don’t,” Nate demands. “Don’t.” He keeps sobbing, but it’s totally out of his control. It’s obvious he’s trying to stop. He can’t. He just cycles between harsh sobs and agonized groans. The paramedics have somehow made it worse.
Ten minutes ago, Gabriel was cranky and impatient. He was ready for a fight with me about staying over.
With Nate, he has infinite patience. Gabriel’s the first one to understand that Nate doesn’t want the guy paramedic to touch him. He’s a sweet, soft-spoken man with a broad frame who accepts it gracefully and lets his teammate be the one to get down on the stoop. She has a clear, carrying voice and is as steady and calm as Gabriel in this moment.
“We need to get Nate onto the stretcher so we can assess the situation and move him to the hospital. If he’s got internal bleeding, we want to get him to surgery as quickly as possible. And we need to determine the source of the blood on his face.”
“I agree,” says Gabriel. “But he can’t lie down. Can’t put any pressure on his knees. He needs pain management now, or he’s not getting on the stretcher.”
“Mind if I get a blood pressure reading right here? Pulse ox?” I’m sure the paramedic wants more information to give the doctors, but she’s not intense about it. It’s clear she has experience in bad situations. She takes Nate’s blood pressure while he’s still in Gabriel’s lap and puts a pulse ox monitor on his finger. There’s some more quiet discussion. She reassures Nate that she won’t touch his knees. Her fellow paramedic is ready with morphine. She swipes an alcohol swab over Nate’s bicep and gives him the injection.
Within minutes, his knees have lowered several inches from his chest. It takes another five for Gabriel to convince him to let go of his shirt. By then, the morphine is fully kicked in, and Gabriel can move him to the stretcher.
The emergency room is bright and busy. Nate wasn’t the only one who needed help tonight. Heisthe only one who has Gabriel.
He was in a zen state of calm on the stoop, but tension sets into his shoulders when we walk into the ER alongside Nate’s stretcher. His jaw tightens. I put a hand on his elbow, meaning to ask if he’s okay, but a rush of doctors surrounds us.
Then he’s Gabriel Hill, and he’s running the show. It doesn’t matter that he’s in sweatpants and a crew neck sweatshirt with quite a bit of Nate’s blood on it. People react to him like he’s in his perfect, flawless clothing. He’s the one who finds Nate’s ID in his pants pocket and starts filling out forms. Nate’s information.Hisinformation. Guarantee upon guarantee that he’ll pay for whatever care Nate needs.
He has a gash near his hairline that needs stitches. He needs an x-ray. A CT scan. My head spins from all the things the doctors consult Gabriel about. The energy in the ER verges on frantic. A toddler screams. A woman keeps repeatingI need more informationin a high, shrill voice.
Two techs wheel Nate away for his x-ray. Gabriel flags down one of the ER doctors. “He needs to be moved to the VIP wing. I don’t want him brought back here.”
“Mr. Hill.” The doctor looks at Gabriel over his glasses. “There are a number of tests we need to run before we can consider—”
“Maybe I wasn’t clear. Transfer Nate to the VIP wing. Do it right now. I’ll sign another twenty fucking forms guaranteeing payment if that’s what you need. I’ll fund another department at this hospital. I do not want him brought back to anywhere other than a private room in the VIP wing with dedicated staff.”
The doctor decides it’s better not to argue. Gabriel signs more forms and hands them over. Then he looks at me, his green eyes as dark as his mood.
A nurse appears to lead us to the VIP wing. Once we pass through a second set of double doors, the noise from the ER fades.
The VIP wing is hushed, freshly decorated, and warm. Our nurse shows us Nate’s room, which is bigger than my apartment, and says she’ll be with us for the next twelve hours. “Nate will be back shortly. I’ll be at the station in this wing if you need anything at all.”
