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“Barrett?! BARRETT, wake up!” I’m shaking him when I hear the sound of footsteps crunching leaves.
Then there’s a red-haired guy. Tall. Did I see him in the moccasin shop? That’s all I have time to think before he’s shoving me aside. Another guy comes, too. They’re on Barrett so fast at first I’m scared. I try to force them off.
“Stay back,” the black-haired man barks.
“You okay?” the red-haired one asks me as he stabs something into Barrett’s leg.
I start to sob. “What’s wrong with Bear?” I come closer and the black-haired one holds out his arm.
“Don’t touch him!”
“Please?” The word collapses. Sobs start coming.
It takes me some time to notice that the red-haired one has got a red tube. There’s a tube connecting him to Barrett.
The mean one—the one who said “don’t touch him”—has his hands around Bear’s throat.
Their faces are taut and furious. That’s how they look to me. I can still hear Barrett’s breathing, see him moving. Mine. I drop down beside his head.
“Barrett? I love you so much.”
I’m still sitting there, stroking his hair and forehead, when the ambulance arrives at my house.
“RUN,” one of them growls. “Tell them we need a trach, his trachea is torn and there’s a rip in his left common carotid!”
I don’t remember doing that. I don’t remember any of the details. I just see Barrett’s eyes, the way they open and shut, tears leaking the whole time they load him up. His gray cheeks, all wet, and his red lips stretched open, trying to get air into his lungs.
When the red-haired guy detaches himself from Barrett, I jump into the ambulance. Barrett’s fingers stretch out slightly and his face folds on a sob that has the paramedics scrambling around his throat.
I grab his hand. I don’t let go.
THIRTY
GWENNA
I don’t know where we are when Barrett starts struggling and moaning.
“Gwen…?” His voice is so raspy, I can barely make out my name, but I recognize the tone. He’s called for me so many times before, how could I not?
“Right here.” I squeeze his hand. It’s cold and damp in mine.
His head presses back against the top of the stretcher, and his face twists. Then, before I know what happened, someone shoves me. “Back up!”
I hit the ambulance’s wall with a hard bump. Oh my God, are those paddles?
“Stand clear!”
This weird, high-pitched noise whines. The two paramedics are messing with his chest and face. The woman starts counting, pressing on his chest; the man is at his mouth and looking down.
His face looks strange. His skin is gray, his eyes are rolling.
“What’s wrong?”
I can only watch as Barrett’s body twitches. His hand, curled up by his chest, unfurls and curls again as his back arches.
“Barrett!”
The paddles aren’t really paddles—more like soft stickers. The first time they shock him, I’m staring at his face. Please…please…please…
