palm of her hand. Air rushed hollowly out of his mouth. She compressed his chest twice more.
Andy’s head lolled to the side. She picked up his right arm, the ball of her thumb pressing tightly at the bend of his elbow, lowered her mouth to his wrist—
And then—
Rachel’s mind went blank. Literally blank. Static on an empty television channel. She blinked and shook her head. Her brain fired up, jerked her back to reality. Milada looked at her, her crystal-clear eyes filled with concern. She touched Rachel’s cheek with her fingertips. “Are you all right, Rachel?”
She nodded. She hadn’t fainted, had she? She didn’t faint over something like this—after all, she’d handled bloody catastrophes at girls’ camp. She was still kneeling at Milada’s side. Only a moment had passed, but whatever had happened in that moment had evaporated into nothingness.
Milada said, “The boy is breathing.”
“He’s breathing?”
Milada scooped the boy into her arms and stood up. Rachel remained on her knees, still dazed. Milada said, “In the right pocket of my jacket—”
Rachel leapt to her feet. Andy was a big boy for his age, but Milada’s voice was not even strained. The thought struck her: Good heavens, she’s strong.
“My cell phone—”
Rachel reached into her jacket pocket and found the little Nokia. She popped it open and dialed 9-1-1. “An eight-year-old boy just got stung by yellow jackets. I think he’s in anaphylactic shock. We did CPR. He’s breathing now. We’re at 445 Willow Way in Sandy.”
People ran toward them. Laura arrived first, her eyes wide. “Andy!” Brent Millington shouted. Milada carried Andy to the lawn and set him down on the grass next to the patio. Andy stirred, twitched, and kicked like a sleeping dog. He coughed, his stomach heaved, and he threw up pink lemonade, half-digested hot dog, and melted orange Popsicle onto Milada’s jacket.
Brother Millington sat Andy up and patted him on the back, making sure he didn’t choke. “You all right, Sport?”
Andy weakly bobbed his head.
A police cruiser drove up, siren screaming in the quiet twilight, strobe lights painting the street with ribbons of red and white and blue. The ambulance arrived soon after. The paramedics hefted the boy onto the gurney and started an IV drip.
A small crowd gathered in the street in front of the house. Bill Garner—the Garners lived three houses down—approached the bishop. “It’s Andy Millington,” David explained. “He got himself tangled up in a yellow jacket nest. But it looks like he’s going to be okay. Brent’s riding with him to Alta View Hospital. I’ll take Charlene and the kids and meet them there.”
Troy Ellis asked, “You need any help giving Andy a blessing, Bishop?”
The bishop gave Troy a pat on the shoulder. “Tom’s going to follow us down. He can assist us there.” Between Troy and Bill Garner, the news would get out, a mostly correct version. “He’s going to be okay,” the bishop said again.
The ambulance roared off. The police officer waited while David loaded the Millingtons into Rachel’s Odyssey, and then he escorted them to the Alta View ER.
The small crowd dispersed.
Rachel took a breath, exhaled. “Well,” she said without any irony, “that was interesting.” Her nose caught the sour smell of bile. “Oh, Milada, your clothing—”
Milada glanced down. “Most of it’s on my jacket,” she said, as if that was a good thing. She scraped a spot of vomit from her thigh with the side of her hand and flicked it off.
“For heaven’s sakes. Come inside. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
In the kitchen they daubed off the puke with paper towels. The foul odor remained. “I’ll have to soak that,” Rachel said. “You know, we’re about the same size, Milada. Why don’t I give you an old sweat suit to change into? I’ll take care of the cleaning.”
“I think I can make it home in one piece.”
“No, no. I insist.”
She steered
Andy’s head lolled to the side. She picked up his right arm, the ball of her thumb pressing tightly at the bend of his elbow, lowered her mouth to his wrist—
And then—
Rachel’s mind went blank. Literally blank. Static on an empty television channel. She blinked and shook her head. Her brain fired up, jerked her back to reality. Milada looked at her, her crystal-clear eyes filled with concern. She touched Rachel’s cheek with her fingertips. “Are you all right, Rachel?”
She nodded. She hadn’t fainted, had she? She didn’t faint over something like this—after all, she’d handled bloody catastrophes at girls’ camp. She was still kneeling at Milada’s side. Only a moment had passed, but whatever had happened in that moment had evaporated into nothingness.
Milada said, “The boy is breathing.”
“He’s breathing?”
Milada scooped the boy into her arms and stood up. Rachel remained on her knees, still dazed. Milada said, “In the right pocket of my jacket—”
Rachel leapt to her feet. Andy was a big boy for his age, but Milada’s voice was not even strained. The thought struck her: Good heavens, she’s strong.
“My cell phone—”
Rachel reached into her jacket pocket and found the little Nokia. She popped it open and dialed 9-1-1. “An eight-year-old boy just got stung by yellow jackets. I think he’s in anaphylactic shock. We did CPR. He’s breathing now. We’re at 445 Willow Way in Sandy.”
People ran toward them. Laura arrived first, her eyes wide. “Andy!” Brent Millington shouted. Milada carried Andy to the lawn and set him down on the grass next to the patio. Andy stirred, twitched, and kicked like a sleeping dog. He coughed, his stomach heaved, and he threw up pink lemonade, half-digested hot dog, and melted orange Popsicle onto Milada’s jacket.
Brother Millington sat Andy up and patted him on the back, making sure he didn’t choke. “You all right, Sport?”
Andy weakly bobbed his head.
A police cruiser drove up, siren screaming in the quiet twilight, strobe lights painting the street with ribbons of red and white and blue. The ambulance arrived soon after. The paramedics hefted the boy onto the gurney and started an IV drip.
A small crowd gathered in the street in front of the house. Bill Garner—the Garners lived three houses down—approached the bishop. “It’s Andy Millington,” David explained. “He got himself tangled up in a yellow jacket nest. But it looks like he’s going to be okay. Brent’s riding with him to Alta View Hospital. I’ll take Charlene and the kids and meet them there.”
Troy Ellis asked, “You need any help giving Andy a blessing, Bishop?”
The bishop gave Troy a pat on the shoulder. “Tom’s going to follow us down. He can assist us there.” Between Troy and Bill Garner, the news would get out, a mostly correct version. “He’s going to be okay,” the bishop said again.
The ambulance roared off. The police officer waited while David loaded the Millingtons into Rachel’s Odyssey, and then he escorted them to the Alta View ER.
The small crowd dispersed.
Rachel took a breath, exhaled. “Well,” she said without any irony, “that was interesting.” Her nose caught the sour smell of bile. “Oh, Milada, your clothing—”
Milada glanced down. “Most of it’s on my jacket,” she said, as if that was a good thing. She scraped a spot of vomit from her thigh with the side of her hand and flicked it off.
“For heaven’s sakes. Come inside. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
In the kitchen they daubed off the puke with paper towels. The foul odor remained. “I’ll have to soak that,” Rachel said. “You know, we’re about the same size, Milada. Why don’t I give you an old sweat suit to change into? I’ll take care of the cleaning.”
“I think I can make it home in one piece.”
“No, no. I insist.”
She steered
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