Moments (II)

"What's your name, man?" he asks, a little bit foggy, and I tell him, reaching in through the remains of the car window.

"I'm a paramedic with the ambulance," I add, lifting his arm up gently to wrap the blood pressure cuff around it. "What's hurting you?"

"My f'cking leg, man," he shouts, and I nod, looking at the door, shoved halfway to the center column. I can't tell, standing at the side, what model of car it is, or even the make. It's blue. Four doors. Sort of.

"I bet," I tell him.

On the other side, an off-duty medic and three volunteer firemen yard the driver out, onto a backboard, and set him on the ground. My partner stands back, spiking a bag of saline. A tiny flash of blue protruding from his thigh pocket betrays the syringe of fentanyl he has ready.

"Cutting!" a fireman shouts, and the Sawzall buzzes to work on the C-posts of the sedan. I step back, out of the way of flying glass. Diesels and generators rumble in the warm night air. Blue and red and yellow lights decorate trees and reflect off a stop sign, leaning halfway over.

Above, the helicopter does a slow loop over the whole scene, spotlight sliding over fire trucks and cop cars, debris and bystanders. Scoping the scene. Waiting.