so it wouldn’t roll during the drive — which was not going to be leisurely.
Police waited for the EMTs to signal; they would block traffic so the ambulance could make a U-turn, take the other turnpike entrance, and begin the nine-mile trek to the hospital.
The boy had to be flat on his back, neck unmoving, in case he had injured his spinal cord, but there was also danger of compromising his airway now that he was no longer facedown. The instant that the stretcher was in the ambulance, one EMT sat in the CPR seat and began suction. “It’s okay, son,” he said soothingly, although it was not.
“What’s in his mouth?’ asked the second EMT.
“Gravel. Teeth. Blood.”
A clear plastic tube, exactly like the suction tube the dentist uses for saliva, but much larger, sucked up the debris that filled Alec’s mouth and deposited it in a container that looked exactly like a Mr. Coffee pot.
Alec could feel the suction. It not only took the junk out of his mouth, it took the air. His lungs were being deflated.
The ambulance doors slammed.
The siren began.
Alec convulsed at the two sudden huge noises and the EMT said, “Not to worry, kiddo. Everything’s, going fine.”
Alec could not talk with the thing in his mouth. He could see, though. Blurry faces leaned over, while huge hands crossed his vision like expanded sign language.
He felt movement as the ambulance turned around, and it was not like a car’s turn at all, but like an amusement park ride. A whipping dizziness.
They were cutting off his clothes.
Scissors cut through his jeans and underpants.
He was going to be naked in front of these strangers. One of whom was a woman.
He wanted to tell them to stop, that his legs were fine, that he didn’t want them to take his jeans off, please, no!
There seemed to be nothing left of the T-shirt. Road burn had reduced his shirt, his chest, and right arm to one big scrape.
“Jeans held up pretty well,” said the EMT. “What brand are these?”
“Sneakers didn’t make it,” said the other one, cutting off what was left of Alec’s high tops.
A cold slimy slab covered the agonizing burn where the exhaust pipe had cooked off his skin. Alec moaned slightly and the EMT said, “It’s Jell-pac, son. It’ll cool off the burn and keep it nice and clean for the doctors to look at.”
A tiny clear plastic bag covered his face now, and an explosion of clarity fireworked in his head.
“How much oxygen are you giving him?” said one.
“Fifteen liters. You think that’s too high?”
“Nope. That’s what I’d do.” This EMT said gently, “We’re going to pour water over you, son. Get the worst of the junk off your skin. You got sand and pebbles and tar stuck to you. Hang on, this won’t feel good.”
It didn’t.
“You’re gonna feel a little stab,” said the woman EMT. “I’m starting an IV on your left hand.”
He wanted to watch but could see only her moving shoulders and arms. She was braced against the shiny built-in cupboards that lined the interior of the ambulance. He felt nothing when she claimed to be putting in the needle. That scared him more than if he had felt everything.
“He’s got a wallet,” said the man who had cut off his jeans. “Driver’s license says this is Alexander Whitman. Age seventeen.”
Distinctly, over everything else, Alec heard a pencil scrawling on paper. They are filling in forms for me, he thought.
He wondered if there were carbons to give to the morgue.
“Taking a corner!” yelled a voice from the front.
He had forgotten about the driver, forgotten how fast they were going.
He felt the engine back off, saw the woman grab a ceiling rod like a subway bar for balance. He felt every degree of the turn the ambulance took. The vehicle whirled. He felt like a vegetable in a blender.
Vegetable.
A picture of himself — unspeaking, unmoving, naked and helpless — appeared in Alec’s mind.
Vegetable.
Please, no. Please don’t let me be a
Police waited for the EMTs to signal; they would block traffic so the ambulance could make a U-turn, take the other turnpike entrance, and begin the nine-mile trek to the hospital.
The boy had to be flat on his back, neck unmoving, in case he had injured his spinal cord, but there was also danger of compromising his airway now that he was no longer facedown. The instant that the stretcher was in the ambulance, one EMT sat in the CPR seat and began suction. “It’s okay, son,” he said soothingly, although it was not.
“What’s in his mouth?’ asked the second EMT.
“Gravel. Teeth. Blood.”
A clear plastic tube, exactly like the suction tube the dentist uses for saliva, but much larger, sucked up the debris that filled Alec’s mouth and deposited it in a container that looked exactly like a Mr. Coffee pot.
Alec could feel the suction. It not only took the junk out of his mouth, it took the air. His lungs were being deflated.
The ambulance doors slammed.
The siren began.
Alec convulsed at the two sudden huge noises and the EMT said, “Not to worry, kiddo. Everything’s, going fine.”
Alec could not talk with the thing in his mouth. He could see, though. Blurry faces leaned over, while huge hands crossed his vision like expanded sign language.
He felt movement as the ambulance turned around, and it was not like a car’s turn at all, but like an amusement park ride. A whipping dizziness.
They were cutting off his clothes.
Scissors cut through his jeans and underpants.
He was going to be naked in front of these strangers. One of whom was a woman.
He wanted to tell them to stop, that his legs were fine, that he didn’t want them to take his jeans off, please, no!
There seemed to be nothing left of the T-shirt. Road burn had reduced his shirt, his chest, and right arm to one big scrape.
“Jeans held up pretty well,” said the EMT. “What brand are these?”
“Sneakers didn’t make it,” said the other one, cutting off what was left of Alec’s high tops.
A cold slimy slab covered the agonizing burn where the exhaust pipe had cooked off his skin. Alec moaned slightly and the EMT said, “It’s Jell-pac, son. It’ll cool off the burn and keep it nice and clean for the doctors to look at.”
A tiny clear plastic bag covered his face now, and an explosion of clarity fireworked in his head.
“How much oxygen are you giving him?” said one.
“Fifteen liters. You think that’s too high?”
“Nope. That’s what I’d do.” This EMT said gently, “We’re going to pour water over you, son. Get the worst of the junk off your skin. You got sand and pebbles and tar stuck to you. Hang on, this won’t feel good.”
It didn’t.
“You’re gonna feel a little stab,” said the woman EMT. “I’m starting an IV on your left hand.”
He wanted to watch but could see only her moving shoulders and arms. She was braced against the shiny built-in cupboards that lined the interior of the ambulance. He felt nothing when she claimed to be putting in the needle. That scared him more than if he had felt everything.
“He’s got a wallet,” said the man who had cut off his jeans. “Driver’s license says this is Alexander Whitman. Age seventeen.”
Distinctly, over everything else, Alec heard a pencil scrawling on paper. They are filling in forms for me, he thought.
He wondered if there were carbons to give to the morgue.
“Taking a corner!” yelled a voice from the front.
He had forgotten about the driver, forgotten how fast they were going.
He felt the engine back off, saw the woman grab a ceiling rod like a subway bar for balance. He felt every degree of the turn the ambulance took. The vehicle whirled. He felt like a vegetable in a blender.
Vegetable.
A picture of himself — unspeaking, unmoving, naked and helpless — appeared in Alec’s mind.
Vegetable.
Please, no. Please don’t let me be a
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