Chapter 21: Hank

Blood came up between my fingers, warm and fast.

"Hank," I said. "Look at me."

His eyes found mine.

They were clear, and he was breathing in short, wet sips.

"Nurse," he said. "Left lung's gone. Needle."

"I know."

"Second rib. Mid-collarbone. Over the top of the rib, not under."

"I know where it goes."

"Then do it, girl," Hank wheezed. "Before I get chatty."

Behind me, Boone was shouting for the paramedics.

A firefighter ran over with a red bag, and I tore it open and found a long catheter needle and a gauze pad.

My hands had stopped shaking.

They always did, when it mattered.

I tore his shirt open and found the notch above his collarbone and counted down two ribs with my thumb.

"This is going to hurt," I said.

"I've been shot before."

I pushed the needle in over the top of the rib.

Air hissed out of him.

Hank gasped, long and ragged, and his chest rose on its own.

"There she is," he said, and his eyes closed.

"Hank!"

"Still here," he said. "Don't stop talking."

"Then keep your eyes open and tell me who taught you to swear."

"My mother," he said. "Army taught me the rest."

The paramedics got him on the stretcher.

I walked beside it with one hand on his wrist, counting his pulse the whole way to the ambulance doors.

"Which hospital?" the paramedic asked.

"County," I said. "Trauma bay. Tell them a nurse from the ER is riding with him."

Boone's hand closed on my elbow.

"Go with him," he said. "I'll follow."

I rode in the back of that ambulance with my hand on Hank's chest and my eyes on the monitor.