Protecting What's Mine(6)

Mack positioned the paddles, sent up her superstitious prayer of “please,” and shocked the hell out of the young heart in her hands.

“Got beats,” Bubba yelled.

Thank you, baby Jesus.

“Let’s intubate,” she said. She swiped an arm over the sweat on her brow and blamed said sweat when she stood too straight and smacked her forehead—the part not covered by her helmet—on the metal shelf above the stretcher.

“Fucking A,” she muttered.

The blow surprised the shake out of her hands, and she cleanly slid the trach tube into her patient’s airway.

“Nice job, Mack,” Bubba said in the headset as their patient’s vitals stabilized.

They made quick work of one of the leg wounds as the hospital loomed into view, sunlight bouncing off its glass. Hundreds of cars dotting its parking lots. People scurrying in and out like ants.

Her stomach dipped again as the helicopter descended toward the rooftop helipad. The patient was stable. She’d done her job.

The trauma team, white coats flapping in the air kicked up by the rotors, waited just inside the doors.

“Good save,” Bubba said, offering her a fist bump over the patient.

She returned it. “Back at you, man. Really nice work.”

The skids touched down almost simultaneously in a slick, smooth landing. “Honey, we’re home,” RS sang.

Bubba released the door from inside, and Mack jumped out, ducking low. She helped the roof team unload the stretcher and filled them in on the details.

“Polytraumatic patient, female early twenties, motorcycle versus car. In shock. Intubated.” She rattled off the information to the trauma team. “Lost her and brought her back. One shock.”

“We got her from here, doc,” the trauma surgeon shouted with a nod. He grabbed a rail on the gurney, and together the team wheeled the nameless girl inside.

“Another day, another good karma point,” RS said, joining them on the roof.

“Think she’ll pull through?” Bubba asked.

“She’s young and otherwise healthy. She’s got a good chance,” Mack predicted. She stretched her arms up and over her head.

“That her blood?” RS asked, nodding at the smear on Mack’s forehead.

“Smacked my damn head on the shelf again.”

“That’s twice now,” Sally said, cracking her gum. “Third time, and we get you one of those giant bubble helmets.”

Bubba joined them at the edge of the helipad and tapped the scar through his eyebrow. “At least you didn’t need stitches en route,” he said cheerfully.

Sally checked her watch. “Looks like that’s a wrap, folks. Anyone wanna grab some grub?”

Mack’s first instinct was a firm no. She was bone tired, and the shake was back in her hands. She clenched them into fists and slid them into the pockets of her flight suit. She was here for a change of scenery, a break while she figured out next steps. Fraternizing with her crew was a good thing, she reminded herself. Normal even. She was forcing herself to embrace normal.

“Yeah. Sure. Lemme grab a shower first.”

“And a Band-Aid.” RS smirked, tapping her own unblemished forehead.

“I’m out. Promised the little lady I’d take the kids grocery shopping tonight to give her an hour of peace,” Bubba said, throwing them a salute. “Great work, Mack.”

“You, too, Bubs.”

“Meet you downstairs in thirty? I gotta do some post-flight checks,” RS said, jerking her chin toward the helicopter.

Another thing Mack appreciated about the pilot. She’d flown with pilots who focused only on pre-flight checklists then walked away from the bird without a backward glance after landing. Ride Sally took her job seriously, beginning to end.

Mack headed inside and down three flights to the locker room where she indulged in a five-minute, scalding hot shower. Her muscles loosened as she washed away the layer of dried sweat. When she was sufficiently clean, she threw the knob to cold and counted down from sixty, letting the iciness reinvigorate her brain.

She wanted a tall green tea and a sandwich with a mountain of cold cuts. She’d play a little getting to know you with RS, then head on home. Maybe unpack another box, catch up on another study or journal. Bed early. Wake early. Workout. Breakfast.

And then head into the small-town family practice—God help her—where she’d be spending the next six months of her life.

She stepped out and toweled off. Examining the cut on her forehead in the mirror, she rolled her eyes. “You were the one who wanted normal,” she muttered to her reflection.

She ran a comb through her hair, gave it a blast with the hair dryer, and stepped into her civilian clothes. A glance at the clock on the wall told her she still had fifteen minutes.

For the first time, her thoughts flitted back to the firefighter on the ground.

Her brain always sifted through calls and responses in odd, dreamlike ways. Rather than replaying the action during the flight, she was thinking of the blue-eyed firefighter with the bum shoulder. He looked more like a lifeguard. Tanned, blond, easy charming grin.

A pair of nurses in scrubs wandered in and gave her a nod. The one with a short cap of silver-blonde hair popped open her locker and toed off her clogs with a grateful sigh. “I hate twelves.”