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“Ready to have some fun?” he asked, slapping me on the shoulder. It was a brisk morning, but perfect weather if suited up in the thick bunker gear.
“Sure.”
“Good. You’re victim number one. See Gant over there and he’ll get you suited up.”
I arched a brow. I expected to be doing some pretend resuscitation or intubating or something. “Victim?”
He nodded. “You’re going into the back of that car and we’re going to rescue you. We’ll try not to poke you with a tool. If we cut off your arm or break your neck practicing our medical skills, you’ll be able to tell us what we’re doing wrong.”
“If I’m going to get poked this morning, I’ll give blood.”
“You can do that after the training. We have thirty minutes to get you out to stay within the golden hour to ensure we can transport the patient to docs like you in time.”
He referred to the immediate window of time after an emergency during which chances of preventing death by getting someone to medical care was the highest.
“The slower team buys dinner and drinks later.”
The man I imagined was victim number two just finished suiting up in bunker gear and awkwardly climbing through a broken passenger window on one of the totaled cars. A wool blanket was handed in after him, then flung over his head. Since he was only apretendvictim it was obvious they wanted to shield him from broken glass or any other fun debris from the extrication.
The firefighters grabbed their tools, got organized and got busy. The revving of power equipment cut through the peaceful fall morning.
“Claustrophobic?” he shouted over the noise.
“Not yet, but I might be after this.”
He laughed.
I was serious.
“Let me guess, a trauma surgeon’s idea of fun is sharing x-rays of the worst impalements?”
Unfortunately, he was probably right. The things I’d seen, and many of the impalements were intentional, sexual and through the anus, were pretty crazy.
Instead of answering, because I figured the question was rhetorical since he already knew the truth, I countered, “And this is your idea of fun?”
My brow never went down the entire time he talked. He and I both did our best to save lives, but the difference between his kind and mine was clear. He did the real saving and I just ensured they stayed alive.
“Hell, yeah.”
“Come on.”
He took me over to the unoccupied totalled car and introduced me to the group as I put on the borrowed bunker gear, piece by piece. Five men and one woman. All young. Fit. Excited.
I listened as they talked through their action plan, then was helped into the car. I had to climb through the front windshield on my stomach, then slither between the two front seats, only narrowly missing losing my balls on a stick shift before settling into the back seat. The ceiling was crumpled down and it was fucking tight. Through the dirty windows I saw the team grabbing their tools. Mac stuck his head in the front window and shouted over the power generator that just kicked in.
“You good?” he asked as I settled the borrowed helmet on my head, then tugged the safety goggles down from the brim.
“I’ll buy the entire crew food and drinks if they get me out of here in under fifteen minutes.”
He grinned and handed me the wool blanket, just like the other fake victim had received. “Now’s when I tell you you’re joining me at my kid’s school on Monday. Career day.”
I took the blanket, then stilled. “What?”
He grinned and his mustache twitched. “Career day. You. Me. Monday.”
“I’d rather give blood in the bloodmobile,” I muttered, but he heard me.
“Why’d you become a family doc then, Doc?”
