her. “Now what?”
“I need you to keep compression right here.” She could barely see her own hands.
“I’m ready,” he said.
She caught a glimpse of the label on his jacket—Bond Street Tailors, London. It sounded very posh. It was about to be ruined, though.
“What do I do? Should we wait for help?”
“We hope he doesn’t bleed out or stroke out before they get here.”
This guy clearly needed very specific guidance. “Listen carefully. This is important. Don’t move the compress that’s already there, because that’ll only make it worse. Put the jacket directly over the bleed and press down hard. It’s an arterial pressure point. Don’t worry about hurting the guy. He’s unconscious. The only thing that’s going to keep him from bleeding out is the pressure you apply.”
“Jesus. I can’t—”
“Just do it. Now. I need to check his pulse. I think he’s seizing, and that’s bad.”
Before the guy could protest again, she grabbed the jacket from him, clapping it over the wound.
“Press down hard,” she said.
He turned an even whiter shade of pale, and his eyes rolled upward.
“Don’t you pass out on me,” she said. “Don’t you dare.”
She carefully removed the helmet. The victim was gray-faced, his features slack now, his pupils dilated. She checked his airway again. Still clear, but there was almost no pulse. The whole time, she was inwardly urging the EMTs to hurry up and get here.
The useless guy swayed, then struggled to rally. Okay, he wasn’t totally useless. Just...out of his element. And definitely overdressed. Still, she was grateful he’d happened by.
“Is he going to be all right?”
“I can’t answer that. His breathing’s not right. He’s got multiple injuries and almost no pulse. Do yourself a favor and don’t look at his left leg.”
And then of course he looked. “Oh, Jesus.”
“Keep pressing and don’t let up. And don’t disturb his upper thigh.”
This was bad. Faith knew she was way out of her depth. She had plenty of training in trauma situations, but hadn’t put those skills into practice since Dennis. Pulling her mind away from her late husband, she stayed focused on the victim. “I’m losing his pulse,” she said, unbuttoning his shirt. “I need to begin chest compressions.”
“Losing...what? Ah, Christ...”
“You sure the EMTs are on their way?” she asked the guy.
“Positive.” He spoke through gritted teeth.
“Did they give you an ETA?”
“The dispatcher said they’re ten minutes out. That was almost ten minutes ago, so—”
“Okay, I need to concentrate here.” Faith knew it was better to perform a few unnecessary chest compressions for someone with a beating heart, rather than withhold compressions from someone in cardiac arrest. Holding her hands one over the other, she leaned over his bare chest and got started. Everything else fell away as she pushed hard and fast, counting out thirty compressions at a hundred beats per minute. She visualized the heart, such a fragile organ beneath her hands, being forced to pump again and again, oxygenating the victim’s blood.
“Ma’am, are you sure—”
The rest of his words were drowned out by the welcome yip of a siren.
“They’re here,” the guy said.
“Don’t let up,” she ordered him. She was covered with sweat and blood, keeping up the rhythm of the chest compressions.
“Not letting up,” he said.
The EMTs swarmed from the truck. “I’m Joseph Kowalski,” one of them said, putting on protective gear. “Did you see what— Christ.”
“A male in his forties,” Faith rapped out, knowing they needed information fast. “I came upon him about fifteen minutes ago. He’s bleeding from the right brachial artery. Compound fracture of the left leg and there’s an impalement in his upper right leg. Possible trauma to the head, pupils dilated. I started chest compressions as soon as this guy showed up.”
The team of EMTs got down to work, draped, shielded and protected—a reminder that Faith and the other guy were not. The medical team took over the CPR and bleeding control with swift efficiency. One of the guys radioed in the incident, repeating essentially the information Faith had relayed.
“Who was the first responder?”
“That would be me,” she said, trembling from the rush of adrenaline. “I just happened by. I’ve got training. LPN,” she explained.
The well-dressed guy swayed a little on his feet, regarding his bloodstained clothes. “Deep breath,” she told him. “You’ll be all right.”
“Ma’am, are you familiar with BBF exposure protocol?” One of the guys handed Faith a wad of antiseptic wipes. He offered the same to the guy in the suit.
“BBF exposure?” asked the guy in the suit.
“Blood and body fluids,” she translated. “We’re going to have to get a post-exposure evaluation.”
He swallowed visibly and swayed a little on his feet. “For...?”
“Blood-borne pathogens.”
His face turned an even paler shade of gray. “Oh. Damn.”
“We’ll go in as soon as we can,” she said as the EMTs finished their work. She used the antiseptic wipes to scrub her hands, getting the worst of the blood off.
The local police showed up after that, two squad cars forming a parentheses around the wreck. Faith moved toward the van, eager to check on Ruby.
“Good work,” an EMT said to her as the team secured the backboard. “The guy’ll live to ride another day. He probably would have bled out if you hadn’t stopped.”
Cara showed up, out of breath from running. Her gaze flicked from her mother to the stranger in the suit, eyes widening at the sight of all the blood. “Oh, man.”
“Ma’am,” said a police officer, eyeing the blood. “I’ll need to get a statement from you.”
“I don’t have time at the moment,” she said, speaking over the wail of the departing ambulance siren. “My name is Faith McCallum.” She dictated her phone number.
He wrote it down. “But, ma’am—”
“Sorry. I need to check on my younger daughter, I have to get to the ER for BBF exposure and I’m already late for
