Chapter 6
REID
"Garrison! Get your ass over here," Brennan calls from across the station. "Walsh owes Kowalski money."
I drop my gear bag by my locker and jog over to where half the crew is gathered around the duty board. Nothing like watching someone lose a bet to start the shift right.
"What's this about?" I ask.
"Walsh here bet that you'd call in sick today," Tony says. "Said you looked like death warmed over when we finished our shift this morning."
"I said he looked tired," Walsh protests. "Man worked fourteen festival calls and then stayed out until God knows when."
"Nine thirty," I say, holding up my hands. "I was home by nine thirty like a responsible adult. Tucked in. Warm milk. The whole thing."
"Bullshit," Brennan laughs. "Nobody looks that happy unless they got laid."
"Or fell in love," adds Soren behind his coffee mug.
Holy fuck, the rumor mill is in fine shape today. "Can't a man just enjoy a good breakfast?" I snatch one of the twenties from Kowalski's hand as he's counting his winnings. "Thanks for the faith in me, assholes. I'm using this to buy donuts. None of you get any."
"Hey!" Kowalski yells, but he's laughing.
"Speaking of last night," Walsh says, pocketing the rest of his loss, "any word on what the hell people were actually taking? Because that was some weird shit, even for festival drugs."
"No kidding," Tony agrees. "I've seen people on everything from meth to bath salts, but I've never had someone try to teach me to fly."
"Or ask me to check their molecular structure," Soren adds.
"You guys got off easy," Kowalski says. "We had a woman who was convinced her hands were made of glass and kept asking us to be careful not to break her fingers."
"And that dude who thought he was shrinking," Walsh adds. "Kept begging us not to step on him."
Brennan shakes his head. "Worst one we got was the guy who was sure his skin was melting off. Spent twenty minutes trying to collect it in a bag."
"Jesus," I mutter. Other than a little pot when I was a kid, I've stayed away from drugs. I don't get the attraction. Why the hell do people want to fuck with their brains like that? Give me a beer and a good burger, and I'm happy.
"Festival organizers aren't talking," Brennan continues. "But rumor is the cops think it was some new synthetic hallucinogen. Probably got mixed in with the regular party drugs."
Chief Williams appears from his office, coffee in hand.
"Alright, listen up. We've got extra units running festival coverage again tonight, so stay sharp.
Good news is, DEA thinks they got the source of whatever was making people think they were turning into animals.
Bad news is, there's still plenty of regular festival drugs to keep us busy. "
He runs through the usual briefing—weather, road conditions, special events. "Medics, you're working with county dispatch for any overflow from downtown. Fire suppression, we're on standby for crowd control if things get hairy."
"Any questions?" Chief asks.
"Yeah," Brennan calls out. "When do we get hazard pay for dealing with people who think they're turning into animals?"
"Around the same time the hair starts growing back on the top of your head," Chief shoots back without missing a beat.
Brennan gasps and rubs his bald head while everyone laughs, including him.
"Chief woke up violent today," I say, slapping Brennan on the shoulder. "You need some ice for that burn?"
"Get out of here, Garrison."
"Alright, Garrison," Tony says, grabbing his radio. "Ready for another night of weird?"
"Ready as I'll ever be."
We head out to check our equipment, running through our usual routine.
Tony's been my partner for two years now, and we've got a good system.
He's steady, experienced, doesn't panic under pressure.
Plus he's got a good sense of humor, which helps when you're dealing with the kind of shit we do on a regular basis.
"So," Tony says as we're checking our supplies, "you gonna ask that nurse out or what? Laine, right?"
"Already did." I try to sound casual, very focused on counting gauze pads. "We went to breakfast this morning."
Tony stops what he's doing and stares at me. "You went out with her already? Like, right after shift?"
"Yeah. You owe me five bucks by the way."
He just shakes his head. "And?"
"And what?"
"How was it, you idiot?"
I can't help smiling. "Good. Really good. She's..." I crack my knuckles, trying to find the right word. "I don't know. Different."
"Different how? Aside from being hot and not running away when butterfly guy tried to take flight?"
"Like she actually listens when you talk. And she's funny. Smart as hell." I realize I'm grinning like an idiot and force myself to focus on the supply checklist. "I don't know. It's hard to explain."
"I fucking knew it!" Tony grins. "You were making eyes at her all night. I'm surprised you waited until after shift to make your move."
"I wasn't making eyes."
"Dude, you're practically glowing right now. It's disgusting."
Glowing? What the fuck.
Before I can respond, our radio crackles to life.
"Unit Four, respond to I-5 southbound, mile marker 194. Multi-vehicle accident, possible entrapment, multiple casualties."
Tony and I look at each other. The light mood evaporates instantly.
"Unit Four responding," Tony says into the radio, already moving toward the ambulance.
"Kinda makes you wish it were a festival call," I say, climbing into the passenger seat.
Tony hits the sirens and we're racing through traffic, everything else forgotten except the job ahead of us.
I know this is going to be bad before we even get there. Multi-vehicle on the highway means high speed impact, which means serious injuries. Maybe fatalities. My stomach tightens as Tony weaves through traffic.
"Mile marker 194," Tony says. "That's the curve right before the Beltline exit."
I know that stretch. People fly through there doing eighty, maybe ninety. If someone rear-ended another car at that speed...
It's worse than I fucking thought. Three cars, one semi truck, and what looks like a chain reaction that started with someone not paying attention. Metal everywhere, glass scattered across both lanes. My brain automatically starts triaging before we even park.
"Jesus," Tony mutters as we pull up.
Fire's already here, working on extricating someone from the middle car. I can hear the jaws of life cutting through metal. Two other ambulances are on scene, plus state patrol directing traffic around the mess. At least five people sitting or lying on the shoulder. Some walking wounded, some not.
"We need you on the elderly man in the blue sedan," a Lieutenant calls out. "He's conscious but showing signs of internal bleeding."
Tony grabs the trauma kit while I get the backboard. The blue sedan is accordion-folded against the guard rail, driver's side completely smashed. How the hell is anyone still alive in there?
The man inside is maybe seventy, gray-haired, conscious but pale. Too pale. His lips have that grayish tint that means shock and blood loss. His seatbelt probably saved his life, but his steering wheel is pushed back six inches. That's a lot of force. A lot of damage.
"Sir, can you hear me?" I call through the broken window. "I'm Reid, I'm a paramedic. We're going to get you out of there."
"I can hear you," he says, voice thin but clear. Good. Conscious and responsive. "My chest... it hurts to breathe."
Of course it does. Probably broken ribs, maybe punctured lung. Maybe worse. "I know. We're going to take care of that. What's your name?"
"Warren. Warren Dubois."
Tony's already on the radio calling for additional support while I assess Warren through the window. Rapid pulse—I can see it in his neck. Shallow breathing. Possible internal bleeding, which means we need to move fast. This guy needs surgery, not field medicine.
Warren reminds me of my neighbor growing up.
He used to let me and Blake help him with his garden.
And by help I mean we'd eat everything we dug up while Jared "supervised," which meant he ate twice as much as we did.
I can almost feel the sweet pop of the peas on my tongue, hear Jared laughing with his mouth full.
This guy has the same gray hair, same kind eyes. Fuck.
"Warren, I need you to stay still for me while my partner and the fire department get this door open, okay? Don't try to move."
"Okay," he whispers.
Fire gets the door cut away, and we can finally get to Warren properly.
Tony and I work without talking—we've done this enough times that we don't need words.
Cervical collar first, then backboard, IV access.
Warren's vitals are getting worse. Blood pressure dropping, pulse getting faster.
His body's trying to compensate for blood loss, but it's fighting a losing battle.
"Let's get him to the hospital," Tony says quietly. "Now."
Right fucking now.
We load him into the ambulance, and I'm in the back with him while Tony drives. Warren's conscious but fading. I'm pushing fluids, monitoring his breathing, doing everything I can to keep him stable until we get to people who can actually save him.
I love what I do, but sometimes I wish I could do more. Be more. Like some superhero with healing powers that could just fix this shit with a look.
"Am I going to be okay?" Warren asks.
Fuck. I hate this question. "We're nearly at the hospital. The doctors there are pros," I tell him. "They're going to take good care of you."
It's not exactly an answer, but it's honest. Warren needs surgery, and he needs it now. I've seen enough trauma to know when someone's circling the drain.
Tony's driving fast but smooth. He knows how critical this is. We're at the hospital in eight minutes, which feels like an hour.
"Trauma bay two," a nurse calls out as we wheel Warren through the doors.
"Seventy-year-old male, motor vehicle accident, suspected internal bleeding, vitals declining." Too fucking fast.
Dr. Cervantes appears immediately. "What've we got?"
"Warren Dubois, high-speed rear-end collision, steering wheel compressed his chest, showing signs of internal bleeding. Blood pressure's been dropping steadily, pulse rapid and thready."
A hand touches my shoulder, and I glance up to see Laine beside me. For a split second, she's all I can see—those dark eyes, that calm focus. Her steadyness makes me feel like everything's going to be okay, which is weird as fuck.
Reality crashes back. Warren's dying, and we need to hand him over now.
"Blood pressure started at 140 over 90, now it's 100 over 60. Pulse was 85 at the scene, now it's 110. Respiratory rate's shallow, around 24. We've got him on fifteen liters of O2."
Laine's already moving, checking Warren's pupils with a penlight while Dr. Cervantes listens to his chest. Her hands are steady, professional. She knows what she's doing.
"Warren?" Dr. Cervantes says. "Can you tell me where you hurt?"
"Chest," Warren whispers. "Hard to breathe."
"We're going to take good care of you," Laine tells him, her voice calm and reassuring. The same tone she used with the butterfly guy last night, but more serious now. More focused.
"Any loss of consciousness at the scene?" Dr. Cervantes asks me.
"Negative. He's been conscious and responsive the whole time. Complained of chest pain and difficulty breathing from the start."
They've got him. My job's done. I know I should get back to Tony and the paperwork, then head out for the next call. But something keeps me standing there, watching Laine work.
She's different in this context. Still competent, still caring, but there's an intensity to her that I didn't see last night.
No hesitation, no wasted movement. She's already two steps ahead, anticipating what Cervantes needs before he asks for it.
This is life and death, not festival weirdness. This is what she really does.
And she's really fucking good at it.
"Reid?" Tony appears beside me. "We need to clear out. There's two more coming in from the scene."
Right. Other victims. Other people who need help. I can't stand here watching Laine when there's work to do.
But as we're heading back toward the ambulance bay, I catch her eye for just a second. She gives me the smallest nod—professional acknowledgment, but there's something else there too. Something that says I see you in a deeper way.
Or maybe it's just her normal look, and I'm reading way too much into it. We've had one date. That's all.
Get it together, Garrison.
"You okay?" Tony asks as we're walking back to the ambulance.
"Yeah. Why?"
"You seem... I don't know. Distracted."
Distracted. That's one word for it. "Just want to make sure Warren's okay."
"He's in good hands. Cervantes is a good trauma doc."
"And Laine," I add without thinking.
Tony grins. "Ah. There it is."
"What?"
"You were staring at her like you want to hump her leg. Again."
"Rude! That was my normal face in there. I wasn't staring. I'm a fucking professional asshole."
"Right. And I'm the Easter bunny."
"You'd make a great Easter bunny. Very fluffy energy."
"I will crash this ambulance."
Before I can respond, our radio crackles again.
"Unit Four, respond back to I-5 southbound, mile marker 194. Additional patient needs transport."
As we head back to the site, the rig rattles under my boots and I can't stop picturing her hands.
The way she moved around Warren—no hesitation, no second-guessing.
Just calm, steady competence while everything around her was chaos.
Different from last night. Harder edges.
But the same warmth underneath, the same care. She's the real deal.
Okay. Enough.
Warren's in the hospital's care now. He's a chart number, a handoff. Not mine anymore. That's how this works—you do everything you can, you pass them off, and you move on to the next one. You start carrying every patient with you, this job eats you alive.
But it doesn't matter how often I tell myself that, I still carry them.
But for maybe half a second, looking at Laine, the whole scene just... went quiet. The sirens, the blood, Tony on the radio—all of it just dropped away. Just her eyes on mine.
Fuck. Tony's right. I've got it bad.
And I still don't have her goddamn phone number.