Page 127 of Look on the Bright Side

“Clean that up,” she told Lorenzo, shoving her bag at him.

The next driver had a broken wrist and was white-faced with pain. “Try not to move it,” Lark told her. “We’ll get you fixed up really soon.”

Then Lark jolted to a stop. Two cars ahead was a red pickup truck with a Boston Fire insignia, turned almost sideways in the single lane. The windshield was shattered.

In a blur, Lorenzo ran past her. “Dante!” he yelled. “Dante!” He yanked open the passenger door. “There’s no one in here. Where is he?” He looked at the eastbound lane. “Dante!” His voice was thick with fear.

Lark forced herself to keep going. She couldn’t start screaming his name—Lorenzo had that covered, and she had a job to do. If Dante was part of that job, she would know that very soon.

“Help us!” said a woman in the next car, a two-seater with more damage to the rear of the car than the front. Two females, twenties, one on her phone.

It was amazing how the human brain could think of so many things at once. Dante’s body might be in the road. He might’ve been thrown from the car. The ambulances and fire trucks should be coming any minute. Thank God for seat belts, or these women would be dead. “You okay?” she asked the women.

“She’s on with 911,” said the passenger. “My stomach hurts.”

Lark reached in and palpated it gently. The woman winced.

“You stay here and don’t move a muscle,” Lark said. “There’s a chance you’ve hurt your spleen or liver. It’s probably just a bruise from the seat belt, but do not move, you understand?” She looked at the driver. “If she loses color or starts to faint, come get me immediately. And tell the dispatcher to alert Hyannis ER for mass casualties.”

The driver repeated Lark’s words, her voice tight with fear.

Lark went to the next car. “I’m fine, keep going,” said the driver. “I’m fine.”

Lorenzo stood next to Dante’s truck, his face was white. “My brother…” he said, and his voice was small and scared.

“There he is,” she said before her brain fully processed the sight. Dante was doing exactly what she was doing, going from car to car, checking. Her heart surged with relief and gratitude.

He did a double take when he saw them and ran over. “Lark! We got a bad one. Everyone else can wait.” He had a cut next to his eye, and there was blood on his left hand.

“You okay?” she said, her voice shaking.

He gave her a crooked smile. “I’m good.”

“Jesus, Dante,” Lorenzo said. “I thought you were…” His voice choked off.

“You’re needed up there, big brother,” he said. “You even more, Lark. I’ll be right there. I’ve got some tools in the back of my truck. Go.”

Lark ran. A few people were standing on the side of the road, most on their phones. An older woman was lying on the grass, her husband fanning her with a magazine. “She’s just hot,” he called. “We’re okay.”

The highway was clear in front of the box truck, which had a completely deflated front tire, apparently the cause of the accident. Rammed into and just under the back of it, though, was an SUV. The entire front of the vehicle was crumpled, the windshield smashed, the engine shoved onto the driver’s lap. He had a face full of blood, and his jaw was clearly broken or dislocated. Legs were probably trapped under all that engine.

Not good. But he was conscious…for the moment, anyway.

“I’m a doctor,” she said. His eyes were wild, hands flailing. She grabbed them. “I need you to stay calm. We’re gonna take good care of you.”

Airway, breathing, circulation. He coughed, and blood and a couple of teeth came out of his mouth. She tried to open his door to get closer to him. It didn’t budge. She reached inside his broken window and tried to open it that way. Nope. Chest contusion, probable broken ribs, probable broken legs, possible internal bleeding, definite facial trauma, possible spinal damage. She felt the pulse in his neck. Strong and steady, if fast.

He made a gurgling sound.

“What have we got?” Lorenzo was standing right behind her.

“We’re gonna lose his airway,” she said, her voice calm. “Find a water bottle with a straw, a razor blade or a box cutter.” She’d have to add those items to her bag, or better yet, just buy one of those paramedic bags.

“I’ve got a box cutter in here.” Dante was back, a heavy canvas tool bag in one hand, a crowbar in the other.

“Good,” she said. Her heart rate was probably over a hundred, and adrenaline was flooding through her. “There are alcohol wipes and latex gloves in my bag. I’ve got rawhide shoelaces in there, too, in case we need to tourniquet his legs.” A person could bleed to death from a broken femur, and his legs had to be badly broken underneath the snarl of wreckage that had once been his vehicle. “Find me that straw, Lorenzo.”

“Got it.”

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