It’s normal to make conversation while responding to a call, but my throat is too tight for words right now, so I just nod. What are we walking into?
The last time I talked to Morgan was in the cereal aisle at the grocery store a few months ago. Did I miss signs that she wasn’t okay? Or was I too distracted by the gnawing questions I refused to let myself ask about Charlotte that I didn’t notice?
I’ve tried for years to get over her, but my heart will always belong to Charlotte.
Burton parks the rig just past the front door of a two-story farmhouse that’s seen better days. All the windows are dark, except for a faint glow coming from a window upstairs.
Beyond the house, the fenced pastures and the barn are just shadows. A light is on above the barn entrance, but I don’t see any movement.
Burton and I jump out and open the back doors. We both glove up and I grab the med kit, then follow him to the door. Engine 5 parks to the side. They’re only here for backup so they’ll stay back for now.
On calls like this, we’re usually accompanied by a deputy or two. But they’re not here yet and I’m eager to get inside and make sure Morgan’s okay.
“You wanna wait?” Burton asks as I glance over my shoulder, hoping to see a Finn River Sheriff’s rig materializing out of the darkness.
“Nah. If she’s alone, we should be okay.” If this was a domestic, we wouldn’t have the option of going in alone. We don’t deal with violence—only its aftereffects.
Apprehension fizzles under my skin as we step inside the house.
“Morgan?” I call out.
I’m instantly hit with a scent I don’t like—it’s sour. Stale. Though the house is dark, I make out the shape of the couch in the living room, the piano, and to the left, the dining room table cluttered with junk.
Burton peeks into the kitchen, then shakes his head.
“Morgan?” I call out, projecting my voice into the void.
There’s a thump from upstairs. We hurry to the staircase at the back of the house and climb single file. The stairs creak and the wall alongside it looks like someone tried to rip off the wallpaper but didn’t quite get it all, then abandoned the project.
The top of the stairs is a carpeted hallway with bare walls. We move ahead, passing an empty room and a bathroom, drawn by the faint light coming from the end of the hall.
In a split second, the details of Morgan’s bedroom come into focus. Only it’s all wrong.
“Shit,” Burton mutters as we race to where Morgan is limp on the floor. I almost trip over a pile of clothes and the thick faux fur blanket that she’s twisted up in.
“We need the medics!” Burton says.
I push aside my panic and get on the radio while Burton rolls Morgan to her back, exposing not just the blood that’s soaked into the blanket, but her wounds.
Fuck, she’s pale.
Kneeling on either side of her, Burton and I jump into action. We each take a wound and apply direct pressure with our gloved palm, then rip open layers of gauze and pack them tight against the bleeding. With one hand still adding pressure to thewound, I find a pulse, but it’s thready and fast. Her breathing rate is also elevated. I don’t have the luxury of taking down exact numbers yet but she’s definitely showing signs of hypovolemic shock.
“Morgan,” I say, loud. “It’s Will Hayes. Can you open your eyes?”
Her lids flutter, and she makes a low growl in her throat.
The hit of relief that she’s at least somewhat still conscious vanishes when I clock the ashen look to her skin and the thin layer of sweat—both signaling a decline in her body’s ability to compensate for the blood loss.
“We need an IV,” Burton says.
“I got it,” I say, and lunge for our kit. I rarely do IVs because that’s a skill usually reserved for our paramedics. But we can’t wait for that.
“You sure?”
“Yes, damnit,” I say, tearing open the alcohol prep pad and circling it over where her median cubital vein should be. With her shocky vitals, this is going to be the hardest stick of my life. One I can’t miss.
I rip open the catheter and slide my thumbs up the vein, trying to get a sense for its shape.
