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“Male, approximate age estimated to be between ten and twelve, sustained a hard hit on the right side of the body when the vehicle was crushed into the power pole,” she says, pushing the child to the back.
“Curtain three,” Dr. Crane commands, handing out a room number. Looking at me, he informs me, “It’s got the most openness for us to work.”
The paramedic continues relaying her report. “He was unconscious at the scene, has sustained multiple facial and upper body lacerations due to flying glass. The power pole entered the passenger compartment upon impact, causing several compound fractures which we’ve stabilized with field splints. C-spine collar in place due to likelihood of him taking a hit to the right side of his face. Blood pressure is now stable, but was erratic when we arrived on the scene. We’ve notified his father–” Her litany doesn’t pause, but my brain refuses to process anything past her last comment.
We’ve notified his father.
Not his parents, hisfather.Glancing at the gurney as we finally make it into curtain three, and have quickly, yet efficiently, transferred him onto the hospital bed, my heart stutters to a stop.
Dusty!
MyDusty. The little boy with the infectious laugh, who has become so important to me in such a short amount of time. Seeing the usually rambunctious preteen lying there so still, almost buckles my knees and I sway, but there’s a job to do. None more personally linked to me than this one, but I still force myself to keep things professional. Quickly sending up another prayer, I start to assess and catalog his vitals while Dr. Crane begins his exam, barking out orders which Moira and several other nurses with us in the triage room rush to handle.
“Is Patel here?” he questions, directing it to the room at large.
“Right here, Crane,” comes the male voice. “What do we know?”
“Need X-rays and multiple CAT scans, as well as an abdominal ultrasound, but based on his abdominal bruising and rigidity, I suspect internal bleeding,” Dr. Crane barks out, his eyes never straying from Dusty, while I work to cut and remove his clothes.
Without warning, alarm bells sound off, indicating that Dusty has stopped breathing. I don’t think, I just react, jumping onto the bed and digging my knees into the mattress next to his body where I begin chest compressions as Moira grabs the Ambu bag, and begins breathing for him. Dr. Crane and Dr. Patel grab the railings on the hospital bed, take off the brakes, and start running toward the prepped and waiting operating room.
“Don’t you give up, little man. Keep fighting like I’m fighting for you right now,” I chant as I continue CPR while tears stream down my face.
ChapterFourteen
Jett
“ThankGod that didn’t take as long as I thought it would,” I mutter as I enter my truck. While the adrenaline is still coursing through me, all I want is a shower, a few beers, then to kick back and rest until Sunday comes home.
I can’t help the smile that crosses my face when I think of her. We might only be in the first month of our relationship, which is probably stretching it a bit by some folks’ estimation, but I don’t care, however I can see forever when I’m with her.
“Now to help her see that as well,” I say out loud just as my phone rings. Seeing it’s my sister, I answer quickly. “Hey, Cissy, what’s up? Dusty get there okay?”
“J-j-j-ett, oh my God, Jett,” she cries out, her voice trembling.
“Slow down, Cissy. What’s going on?” I ask, dread rushing through me.
I hear my brother-in-law in the background before he takes the phone. “Jett, it’s Larry. There was an accident and Dusty’s at the hospital. You need to head there ASAP,” he states while Cissy sobs in the background.
“How bad, Lar?” I question, making the turn out of the parking lot that will take me to the hospital. Possum Run may not be a huge town, which is part of its appeal, but we’ve got one of the best trauma hospitals in the area, so I’m not really concerned. Especially since Sunday’s working; she’ll take good care of my boy.
I hear a deep sigh on the other end of the phone and brace myself since this sounds like more than just a simple fender bender, especially with the way Cissy is nearly hysterical in the background, hollering out instructions to her kids so they can ‘get up there right away’.
“Bad, Jett. The guy who was driving died at the scene, apparently on impact,” he quietly states.
Timmers. My mind sees his grin, how he is with his teammates, as well as with my son and I refuse to believe what I’m hearing.
“You’re saying Michael Timmers is dead?” I whisper. “What the fuck happened? They were hitting up the Burger Shack before he brought Dusty over to you. Tell me what you know,” I demand, fear making my tone sharper than normal.
“I don’t have all the pieces, just what is already going around the gossip mill, but I heard the accident on the scanner and went to the scene to see what I could find out,” he says. Since he’s on our local police force, it makes sense he would show up. “Saw the car, recognized it as one of your boys’ rides then asked the responding officers if there were any passengers. He knows Dusty from the baseball league, Jett, and told me while they worked to get him out of the car, I needed to notify you.”
“That still doesn’t tell me what the fuck happened!” I exclaim, my distress morphing into anger.
“Getting to that, Jett, trying to keep everyone calm right now. Your sister’s losing her shit, the kids aren’t much better, and not gonna lie, I’m fucking holding on by a thread myself,” he growls out.
“Sorry, sorry. He’s my boy, Larry,” I moan out, holding back my tears. Gotta be strong for my little man and my woman, no matter what happens.
“Yeah, he’s ours too,” he whispers. “Family, Jett. My boys got Blake blood running through them too. Anyhow, it seems some woman ran the red light and plowed into Timmers and pushed him into the power pole. The pole came into the passenger compartment which is where Dusty’s injuries came from.”
