Page 16 of Fire & Ice

“Right,” Leander acknowledges, the breeze feeling that much cooler as it whips across his face. “Thank you, Darla.” He turns to his team, gathered a respectful step or two behind him, but nearly bouncing on the balls of their feet to jump into action.

He continues, “Zosia, see to the girls. Both of them need to be transported, regardless of injuries. It’ll be much better for their parents to get the news about the boy in the safety of the ER where there are resources to support them. Marley, Echo, grab collars and boards and use Fire to help secure and load them. None of you need to be near the car, and I expect you to keep the girls away, too. It sounds as if they probably haven’t realized what’s happened yet. I’ll pronounce and call for the coroner.”

There’s relief on everyone’s faces as they split off from their little huddle, hurrying to carry out Leander’s requests. Darla pats him on the arm, her face contrite and apologetic ashe steps away towards the car. In his peripheral vision, the gold-plated “15” on the side of the engine glints dramatically in the dying evening light, making Leander squint.

Tripp is here somewhere,he remembers absently, now wishing more than anything that his friend wasrighthere, by his side. But that’s a luxury and a comfort Leander just isn’t going to get today. As Tripp would say, “It’s ‘Big Girl Panties’ time.”

This is the worst part of the job, without question. This is the thing most of the EMTs and paramedics Leander knows have nightmares about. Before it happens, because of the fear, the anticipation of it, and then afterward foryears, because of the scars it carves into your psyche. This type of situation represents the ultimate failure for a first responder—the victim they were too late to save, the person who is beyond their ability to help, even before they arrive on scene.

It’s nevereasy. No matter the victim’s age, gender, or the way in which they died, death is never painless to bear witness to. Some deaths are easier than others, of course. The ninety-year-old grandmother who dies peacefully in her sleep—Leander doesn’t know too many medics waking up in cold sweats over calls like that.

But this…Darla slipped him the victim’s license as he walked away—how she got it, Leander’s not willing to think too much about. The boy’s picture—vertically placed, since he’s under twenty-one—shows a floppy-haired teenager with a dorky smile and acne. The birth date printed to its right lets Leander know that he only turned eighteen a month ago.

Eighteen.

These firefighters are on the ball. As Leander nears the car, he recognizes his niece, Chloe, standing alongside StationEleven’s Captain Reina Harrington. Reina gives him a solemn nod and tips her head towards Chloe, who’s holding a folded tarp and looks as serious as Leander’s ever seen her. They can’t tarp the car until they have a medical go-ahead, and that’s on him. Even though it’s obvious, even though everyone already knows, no one on this scene can decide that it’s officially over for this boy—no one except for Leander.

That reality weighs heavily on his shoulders, and he tries equally hard not to show it.

The actual physical assessment takes less than thirty seconds total, even counting the time it takes for Leander to climb into the passenger seat and lean over the boy’s skinny body. He places two fingers on the boy’s neck, because he has to. He presses his stethoscope to his unmoving chest, because he has to. Neither are necessary. If anything, Darla was downplaying the severity of the head trauma in her succinct description, and it’s one of the hardest things Leander’s ever had to look at, which is saying something.

Eighteen years, gone in the blink of an eye.

As he exits the still-smoking car, the whole scene seems to slow down and blur, voices going muffled and fading into the back of Leander’s mind as he forces himself to go through the motions. Together with Chloe and Reina, he pulls the bright blue tarp up and over the car so that gawking bystanders can’t see inside. Blue plastic waves in the wind and has to be weighed down by bags of sand in order to stay in place.

Leander turns away. The two survivors are already on backboards, secured to stretchers that are being loaded into each of the ambulances, and he follows, numb.

Using his portable radio, Leander requests the coroner. He speaks to Darla. He climbs into his ambulance and takes reporton the shaken-up but mostly-uninjured little sister from Marley. They drive to the hospital in a hazy fog of red lights bouncing aimlessly through the deepening darkness outside the windows, sirens echoing off of towering buildings as they fly through the city unhindered.

He starts an IV. He asks the fourteen-year-old girl questions about her pain level, about what she remembers happening. He checks her vital signs, covers a shallow laceration on her arm, gives her an icepack for the blossoming bruise on the side of her face. When she questions him about her brother, Leander doesn’t lie, but he doesn’t tell her the truth, either.

“We should wait for your parents,” he suggests. “At the hospital, they’ll be there.”

Someone called them. Darla, probably—Leander thinks he remembers her saying as much.

He’s off the hook, anyway. The girl doesn’t push for a better answer. Either she already knows and wants to stay in denial for a little while longer, or more likely, she hit her head and isn’t completely capable of putting two plus two together right this second.

Leander calls report to the hospital and when they arrive, both his patient and Zosia’s are taken directly to the double trauma bay.Injury potential,is the reasoning.Death, same vehicle.He and Zosia orate their reports clearly and competently to a crowded trauma room full of gowned and gloved professionals before leaving both girls in good, capable hands. The Chaplain is already present, ready to help deliver the bad news alongside the doctors and nurses.

It’s cowardly, but Leander feels relieved to know that particular burden won’t be down to him. At least, not this time.

As he strips off his gloves and washes his hands, Marley pats his back and instructs him to “go get some air,” while she restocks their supplies. She knows him, knows how much he takes these sort of calls to heart, and considering the situation, it’s likely that she’s also extremely grateful he didn’t make her look inside the car. Somewhat mechanically, Leander thanks her and turns away, automatically flicking his badge at the sensor lock to key open the ER doors.

Outside in the ambulance bay, there’s a fire truck idling. The familiar gold “15” on the side looks colder since the sun has fully disappeared. Zosia must have taken one of their firefighters with her to help in the back, the engine is probably here to pick up whoever it was.

The air is chilly, the wind outright brisk, and Leander can’t help but reflect back on his earlier ponderings regarding the likelihood that his sweatshirt wouldn’t be warm enough tonight. He was right, but there’s nothing to do about it now.

He’s dazed. So much so that he doesn’t realize he’s been standing in the middle of the parking lot, staring blankly at the engine for several embarrassingly long minutes. It’s not until the side door opens and someone gets out that Leander even makes an attempt to blink himself back to reality.

Tripp, clad once again in only his bunker pants and a fucking t-shirt, hits the ground moving and strides towards him with a worried look on his face. Despite everything, Leander can’t help but smile at Tripp’s stubborn stupidity, his ridiculous predictability, and his lack of simple common sense. It’s inane, and Leander loves him for it.

“You look cold,” he comments smugly, but Tripp isn’t fooled, reaching out to grab Leander by the bicep and yank him into his chest, hugging him fiercely and clapping him firmly on the back, twice. Tears burst violently into the corners ofLeander’s eyes, and he chokes and gasps a little while doing his best to force them back.

“I know,” Tripp says gruffly, rocking them both from side to side as Leander clings.

“I really need you,” he mutters, soft and rough, and Tripp gets it immediately, pulling back and holding him at arm’s length, but in a reassuring, possessive sort of way.

“You’ve got me,” he replies, looking Leander straight in the eyes. “I promise. Tomorrow night, soon as we get off shift, I’ll be there.” Tripp squeezes his shoulder while Leander works to put his emotions in check and his face back in order, searching for the right thing to say. Tripp is a miracle, and Leander already owes him so much. What would he have done if they hadn’t gone down this road? That’s not even something he’s capable of contemplating at the moment, so he shoves the thought away.

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