Page 147 of Call Me Mrs. Taylor

Raya Ashford

41

Ace

It only takes a second for shit to go left.

One minute, everything is rolling along on the job site. Machines humming, metal clanging, team vibing. Then you hear a sound you’ll never forget. A sickening crack, followed by a hollow thud.

Somebody hit the ground.

I whip my head around, my stomach sinking before my eyes can even confirm it.

It’s Jamal.

He’s crumpled on the ground at the base of the eastern side of the bridge, his limbs twisted at angles they shouldn’t be. The boom lift looms high above him, its arm still extended.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” I’m already running, pushing past his stunned team members, most of whom are frozen in place. “Call 911!” I yell at nobody in particular. A few guys fumble for their phones while I kneel beside Jamal, barely registering the sharp pebbles digging into my skin through my pants.

“Jamal.” My voice is firm even though I’m nervous. “Can you hear me?”

He lets out a low groan. He’s weak, but he’s alive.

“Don’t move, man. Stay still. They’re on the way.”

I know not to move him, but my hands still hover over him, desperate to find a purpose. His face is paler now. His breathing’s shallow. Blood leaks out of his hard hat, which is still on. But his leg…Jesus. It’s bent at the most unnatural angle possible.

A siren wails in the distance, and relief courses through my veins. I glance up to find the crew standing around us, some staring, some whispering, others pacing. A couple of them look at me, waiting for a directive. They know how this works, but they’re looking for me to call it.

“Shut it down.” I sound robotic, not at all like myself. “Everybody off the equipment. Right now.”

My order kicks them into gear. Machines wind down. I hear the hydraulic hiss of the lift releasing. The metal clangs go silent as work grinds to a halt.

Jamal coughs, then winces.

“You’re okay,” I say. “Stay with me, J.”

The ambulance pulls up, lights flashing. I stand as the paramedics rush over. One checks Jamal’s vitals while the other barks out questions.

“Name?”

“Jamal Searcy. He’s twenty-eight.”

“Fall height?”

I glance up. “Gotta be about twenty feet.”

The medics exchange a look, then move quickly. They brace his neck, then the female medic takes a pair of scissors out of her kit and cuts straight up his pant leg.

I don’t look directly at it, but they examine it closely. “Closed break, possible tibia and fibula,” the male medic mutters. “Good distal pulse.”

She grabs a splint, and they make quick work of stabilizing Jamal’s leg. He moans in agony until she injects him with something. They transfer him carefully onto a stretcher, then smoothly load him inside the back of the ambulance.

I’m relieved.

For the moment, at least.

I turn to Taye. “Go in my trailer and find Jamal’s emergency contact form.”

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