CHAPTER FIVE
Devin Boones
I was already in the ambulance with my partner, Nelson , heading back to the station after a routine transfer. We were only five minutes out.
Nelson hit the lights and floored it, and I started mentally preparing for what we might find.
Single vehicle accidents were unpredictable—could be anything from a minor fender bender to a catastrophic crash.
The "possible entrapment" part worried me.
That usually meant the car was badly damaged, the victim trapped inside.
We arrived on scene to chaos. A car—a small sedan—was wrapped around a tree about twenty feet off the road. The front end was completely crushed, the driver's side caved in. Glass and metal littered the ground, and I could smell gasoline.
"Shit," Nelson muttered, and I agreed with the sentiment.
We grabbed our gear and ran toward the car, where a couple of bystanders were already trying to help. One of them—a middle-aged man in a business suit—was on his phone with 911, his face pale.
"I saw it happen," he was saying. "Another car hit her, forced her off the road, and then just drove away. It was deliberate. Someone tried to kill her."
I filed that information away for later and focused on the immediate problem: getting to the victim.
I approached the driver's side, my flashlight cutting through the darkness. The window was shattered, and I could see a woman slumped over the steering wheel, unconscious. Blood covered her face, her hair, the airbag that had deployed.
"Ma'am? Can you hear me?" I called out, but there was no response.
I checked for a pulse—weak and thready, but there. She was alive. Barely.
"We need to get her out now," I said to Nelson. "She's critical."
The fire department arrived moments later, and they started working on cutting the door off while I assessed the victim's injuries from what I could see. Head trauma, definitely. Possible internal bleeding. Her left arm was bent at an unnatural angle—broken. Her breathing was shallow and labored.
This was bad. Really bad.
"What's her name?" I asked the bystander who'd witnessed the crash.
"I don't know. I just saw it happen and called 911."
I reached carefully into the car, trying not to move her too much, and found her purse on the passenger seat. Inside was a wallet with an ID.
Bryony Mikelson. Twenty years old.
Twenty. Jesus. She was just a kid.
"Bryony," I said, louder this time. "Bryony, if you can hear me, help is here. We're going to get you out."
Still no response.
The firefighters finally got the door off, and I moved in immediately with the backboard and C-collar. Every second counted with injuries like these.
"On my count," I said to Nelson as we carefully positioned her. "One, two, three."
We lifted her onto the backboard, securing her head and neck. Her face was covered in blood from a gash on her forehead, and her breathing was getting worse—shallow, rattling breaths that made my gut clench.
"Possible pneumothorax," I muttered, checking her chest. "We need to move."
We loaded her into the ambulance, and I immediately started an IV line while Nelson got us moving toward Crescent Falls Medical Center. I worked quickly—oxygen mask, vitals check, another assessment of her injuries.
Blood pressure dropping. Pulse weak and rapid. Pupils unequal—sign of head trauma.
"Call ahead," I told Nelson . "Tell them we're coming in hot with a critical MVA. Female, twenty years old, severe head trauma, possible internal bleeding, broken left arm, suspected pneumothorax. ETA five minutes."
I kept talking to her even though she couldn't hear me. Sometimes I think it helps—like maybe on some level they know they're not alone.
"Hang in there, Bryony. We're almost there. You're going to be okay."
But I wasn't sure I believed it.
I'd seen crashes like this before. The way her car had wrapped around that tree, the amount of damage—she was lucky to be alive at all. But luck only got you so far.
As we pulled into the hospital bay, I saw the trauma team waiting. Dr. Carver was there, her expression focused and ready.
"What do we have?" she called out as we rushed the gurney inside.
"Bryony Mikelson, twenty years old, critical MVA," I reported quickly. "Severe head trauma, GCS of 6, unequal pupils, suspected internal bleeding, broken left arm, possible pneumothorax. BP is 80 over 50 and dropping, pulse 120 and thready. She's been unresponsive since we arrived on scene."
Dr. Carver nodded, her hands already moving to assess Bryony as we transferred her to the trauma bay bed.
"Let's get a CT scan, full trauma panel, and type and cross for six units," she ordered. "I want X-rays of that arm and chest. Move, people."
I stepped back as the team swarmed around Bryony, their movements practiced and efficient. My job was done—I'd gotten her here alive.
Now it was up to them to keep her that way.
I walked out of the trauma bay, pulling off my gloves and taking a deep breath. Nelson was already cleaning the ambulance, preparing for the next call.
"Think she'll make it?" he asked quietly.
I looked back through the window at the controlled chaos inside.
"I don't know," I said honestly. "But if anyone can save her, it's Dr. Carver."
I just hoped it would be enough.