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The Spare They Came Begging For novel · Chapter 6 of 32

Chapter 6: The 4:40

I was out of my seat before the horn finished its first blast.

The bus was still in drive.

His foot was sliding off the brake.

I reached past his knees, jammed my hand down on the brake pedal, and pulled the parking brake lever with the other hand.

The bus jerked and settled.

I shoved the gear selector to neutral and turned the key off.

The horn stopped.

The silence was worse.

"Somebody call 911," I said over my shoulder. "Tell them a bus driver is down at Mass Ave and Columbus. Tell them he's on dialysis."

A teenager in the second row already had his phone out.

I got my fingers on the driver's neck.

His pulse was there.

It was slow and wide and lazy.

I checked it against my watch.

Thirty-eight.

"Missed my chair Saturday," he'd said.

Potassium. It had to be.

Too much of it, sitting in his blood for two extra days, slowing his heart down one beat at a time.

"I need two people," I said. "We're getting him on the floor."

A man in a construction vest and a woman in a nurse's aide uniform came up the aisle.

We lowered him out of the seat between us.

He was heavy and loose and his Red Sox lanyard caught on the wheel.

I laid him flat in the aisle and tipped his chin up.

He was breathing.

His eyes fluttered.

"Hey," I said. "Hey. Stay with me. It's Gray."

"Gray," he mumbled. "Did I hit anybody?"

"You hit the horn. That's all."

"Good." His eyes rolled closed. "Hate that horn."

His pulse went down to thirty-four.

I kept my fingers on it and talked to him the whole time.

I told him about the shark facts. Thirty thousand teeth. A conveyor belt.

He didn't answer, but his breathing stayed.

The ambulance took six minutes.

The paramedics were good.

I gave them the history in one breath: dialysis Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday at Harbor, missed Saturday, heart rate thirty-four, probably hyperkalemic, fistula left arm, don't stick it.

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