It was dark outside. The ambulances screamed toward Tulsa, toward the city, a hospital.
And guilt began to make its tiny stabs at his flesh, he'd sent Johnny there, after all. Sent him to that church. But the other part of his mind screamed back, "I was only trying to help!"
A lot of help he was. Johnny's breathing had become more labored and the EMT was scrambling, checking vital signs, adjusting the knob on the oxygen tank, starting I.V.s.
Dallas could feel every bump in the road, could hear the sirens slicing through his head.
In all his adventures he'd never been in an ambulance before. Once or twice he was brought to the hospital for injuries from fights, once in a cop car and once in Shepard's car.
"Aw, shit, kid," the EMT said, staring at Johnny. Dallas could see that Johnny's fingernails and lips were blue, and the informal way the EMT said it, "aw, shit, kid," that had Dallas worried, too.
The EMT, who was probably no more than five years older than Dallas and Johnny, whipped the oxygen mask Johnny wore aside and clamped his lips down on Johnny's. Rescue breathing. Dallas watched in horrid fascination. After an excruciating couple of seconds Johnny began to breathe again and the EMT wiped his brow with his sleeve, and Dallas saw such agonized relief in his eyes. He gently placed the oxygen mask over Johnny's nose and mouth.
"Hey, Carl," he called breathlessly to the other EMT, the driver, "hurry it up or we're gonna lose this one!"
Carl turned around briefly, then turned back to the road and floored it.
"Well, that goddamn church is out in east bumfuck!" Carl called back.
Johnny took a gasping breath and the EMT turned back fearfully, but it was just one gasp and his breathing evened out.
Oh Christ, Dallas thought, he's gonna die right here. Dally sat up and watched Johnny breathe, and before he could help it the question was out of his mouth.
"Is he gonna die?"
"He'll make it," the EMT said grimly, and Dally saw the sheer force of his will and wondered how anyone could do that job. Then he turned his attention fully to Johnny.
The short black hair, Dally had never seen it that short, didn't think it had been that short in years. His fingernails, still bluish, bitten to the bloody quick. A nervous habit. Johnny had always knawed on his nails. His hands were crossed over his chest, disturbingly like the positioning of a corpse in the casket.
Through the front window Dally could see the other ambulance, the one that had Ponyboy. Ponyboy would be fine. Maybe smoke inhalation, maybe some first degree burns. He'd be upset if Ponyboy wasn't okay, if he was worse than he seemed. He'd sent them to that church just as much to protect Ponyboy as Johnny. Because those two needed protecting, and Dally understood that. They were innocent in a way that the rest of them weren't.
Tulsa was further by car than train, even screaming ambulance. And the headache began to pound with its insistence, and guilt pounded right alongside it. There was no getting around it. He'd sent them there. Now look what happened.