Not Quite Enough(11)

It wasn’t a jolt, but more of a pull. Even though Deon screamed out Monica kept pulling his leg, feeling as best she could through his skin as the bone attempted to move back into place.
Her arms shook as she fought the patient and the displaced fracture.
Barefoot held traction and watched her as she struggled to keep her grip on Deon’s leg. Monica shifted her position, attempting to pull the bone through muscles and tendons.
This is just as hard as it looks when the doctors do it.
Deon screamed when the bone moved, but it still wasn’t in place.
“Hold up.” Monica instructed Barefoot as she lost her grip. The femur was closer to being in place, but not right.
Deon was moving on the makeshift gurney, making it even harder to set his leg.
Monica rubbed her hands on the towel and leaned into Barefoot so only he could hear her. “Pull harder.”
He nodded once.
She leveraged one leg on the table and sat taller.
Monica counted down again. Three… two… one.
Deon filled the room with his cry.
Monica pulled with every muscle she owned. Her hands started to slide, she repositioned again and felt his leg move.
Monica ground her back teeth together. Her arms started to shudder under the strain. Finally, Deon’s leg shifted and she manipulated it into line.
“Thank God,” she said.
Barefoot eased his pressure off and she set Deon’s leg on the table. She located a pulse behind his knee, felt a beat. Lower, his pulses in his foot were still faint, but better. Much better.
“We need to splint this to keep it in place.”
The receptionist who’d watched the entire procedure left the room.
Deon was already more comfortable.
“I’m sorry I had to do that,” Monica told him once she jumped off the table. The swelling and bruising were evident. She couldn’t rule out a critical bleed. She removed a permanent marker from her pocket and flexible ruler. She marked Deon’s leg in two places and measured the circumference. There wasn’t a chart to write on so she did the next best thing… she wrote the numbers right on the boy’s leg. Then at least she would have a starting point when she checked on him again.
He attempted a smile.
“Wait with him,” she told the mother. “We’ll splint his leg and have a doctor look at him as soon as we can.”
Soon could be the next day if his pulses held and the leg didn’t swell, but Monica didn’t want to tell the mother that.
“I’ll try and get him something for pain. Is he allergic to anything?”
“No.”
Monica added the letters NKA to Deon’s leg in pen. No known allergies… such a simple fact written on a chart. Here it could be life or death.
Monica turned away from the patient, her shoulders slumped slightly. The room was packed. If she could split into five people, she still wouldn’t be able to manage what all of them needed.
A strong hand rested on her shoulder. “Good job back there.”
She glanced over her shoulder and up. Barefoot was tall and surprisingly broad. Unlike anyone else, he smelled good. Sandalwood and man. Such a relief from blood, sweat, and dirt. “Thank you for helping.”
“You did all the work. Have you done that before?”
“No.”
“You made it look easy.” He smiled and for a brief moment, the room slid away. Something curled in the pit of her stomach and heated. Was it desire or was it hunger?
The weight of his hand never left her shoulder. It would have been too easy to lean on him.
She shook off the yearning and moved out of Barefoot’s reach. Unable to stop herself, she glanced at his feet. He wore a pair of running shoes.
“I’ve got to keep moving. Thanks for your help.”
Monica took a few steps away only to hear her name. “Monica?”
He remembered?
“The name’s Trent. Not Barefoot.” He lifted a leg and wiggled his foot.
Monica felt her face heat. “Good to know,” she said with a rare smile before turning away.



Chapter Four



“I need a volunteer.” Donald pulled Monica aside twelve hours after she’d set foot in the blazing inferno.
She rubbed a clean hand over her face and blinked a few times. “Volunteer? Isn’t that what I’m doing here?”
Donald offered a half smile. “I need a nurse to go over one county to the east, it’s a fishing village, Port Lucia. The clinic there is bursting. The local doctor hasn’t been seen since the quake.”
Monica shook her head. “There isn’t a doctor?”
“No. There’s a couple of nurses… aides.” He glanced around them. As organized as chaos could go, the room had some order. “Your triage skills kick ass.”
As much as she’d like to bask in the compliment, she couldn’t get over what he was asking. “You want me to go to a clinic where there isn’t a doctor? How does that work? My license…”
“Your license is safe here. There are people suffering and I need to send someone to triage the worst back here. We have standing orders you’ll take with you, and a two-way radio to ask questions if needed. The last thing we need is more walking wounded filling these rooms.”
Monica couldn’t argue with that. “You’re asking for a volunteer?” The way his eyes looked through her said he was more than asking.
“Tina’s good… but you’re better. If I put the best nurse there, I won’t worry that careless mistakes are happening. Either Walt or I will come up every twenty-four hours to lend a hand.”