Part Two – Control the Scene

It was a slow and steady process of gaining the crew's confidence over those long summer months. Having the least seniority and experience, Evvy got all of the scut work and played a supporting role on runs. The men gradually stopped triple-checking her work, learning to trust her ability to refill O2 tanks and handle a charged hose. She was never put on Search and Rescue, though she was often the first pair of hands a victim would be handed off to. More and more often, she was allowed to enter a burning structure, but never as lead man on the hose. She did what she was told, as quickly and efficiently as possible, and tried to avoid making mistakes.

She was making progress with the crew on a personal level, as well, although slowly. Turned out, the only requirements for not becoming Chet's latest "Pigeon" were two open ears and one closed mouth. That boy could talk. Marco expressed his undying love for her–not entirely seriously nor entirely in English–the day she'd brought in a pan of chicken that she had seasoned and marinated at home overnight. The spicy Caribbean scent hanging in the air after dinner bought her a lot of goodwill. And Stoker, man of mystery that he was, bonded with her privately over her collection of Mills and Boon paperback romances. That secret would die with her.

This was a good crew, she decided, and if they weren't exactly her buddies, they treated her with respect. It made more bearable those times when she seriously doubted her life choices. Like this morning in mid-September when, for about the tenth time, she had reached her locker to find that a piece of masking tape had been affixed to her locker just above the handle, with the word "BUNNY" handwritten on it in nondescript capital letters. As she had every other time, she peeled it off with her fingernail and tossed it in the trash. If anyone on A Shift had noticed it before she'd gotten there, nobody said anything.

Cap told her after roll call that she'd be shadowing the Squad on runs from time to time over the next couple of shifts. "I want you to get familiar with what the paramedics do and what they need."

Evvy was pretty sure that what they needed most was for her to stay completely out of their way at all times. "Yes, Cap," she said.

She walked with some trepidation into the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea. The guys swilled coffee like it was going out of style, but she'd found that she could not keep up with them gallon for gallon. Instead, she pulled a small pot from the cabinet to heat enough water for one cup of orange pekoe. Lopez watched her over the rim of his own cup of strong brew and rolled his eyes.

John drifted in, finishing a donut. "I hear you're riding with us today," he said in her general direction.

"Mmm," she replied.

John grinned. "Don't worry, we won't make you do any amputations on your first ride-along."

Her face said, "great," and "oh, my God," and "shut up," all at the same time, which provoked a burst of laughter. The sound was drowned out immediately by tones.

"Squad 51, possible overdose. Crowell's Market, 11167 Main Street, 11167 Main Street, cross street, Sunderland. Time out, eight thirty-seven."

"Well, here you go," John said, leading the way to the Squad. Evvy stashed her turnout coat so they could all three sit comfortably on the bench. It felt weird to be sitting in a civilian sized truck, peeling down the street at illegal speeds and blowing through stop lights. Much more vulnerable than riding the big red Engine. She braced her feet as Roy expertly careened around a corner, with John navigating. There was no talking, except for occasional directions, each man locked into professional mode.

The Squad screeched to a halt outside a small grocery store. There were people gathered outside trying to peer through the glass door, and the three firefighters had to nudge the spectators aside to enter. Inside, down an aisle containing paper products and cleaning agents, a blond man in his twenties lay face up and still. The grocer hovered near the patient's head.

"Sir, you called this in? Can you tell me what happened?" Roy asked, expertly displacing the agitated civilian and reaching for the victim's wrist.

"He was acting strange from the moment he walked in here," the grocer exclaimed. "Staggering up and down the aisles, picking stuff up and putting stuff down. Didn't look like he was going to buy anything." He sounded aggrieved.

"Did he say anything? Did you see him fall down?" Roy prodded, trying to get more clues. Patient had a fast but steady pulse, so not a cardiac arrest. John busied himself with setting up the biophone. Evvy put the drug box next to the victim, within Roy's easy reach, and stood by, waiting for orders.

The grocer pointed emphatically. "I was watching him like a hawk. Not going to come in and steal from me."

"Sir, you told the dispatcher that it was an overdose. Do you know what he took?" Roy's tone was still calm and even.

"How do I know? All those hippies are on drugs." He leaned over the top of Roy's head. "Look at him–long hair, unwashed. Who knows what he's hopped up on."

John and Roy exchanged a look. "Rampart, this is Squad 51," John said. He glanced up at Evvy and twitched his head, silently asking her to remove the grocer from the immediate vicinity. He returned his attention to the biophone, and rattled off an initial description of the patient's condition and his vital signs.

"Sir," said Evvy, "if you could step back over here and give the paramedics a bit of space . . ."

He eyed her. "What are you supposed to be?"

Evvy would have thought that obvious, what with the black helmet emblazoned with a large "51" on her head and a shiny silver badge pinned to her light blue uniform shirt. "My name's Firefighter Evvy Wayfair." She took a tiny step forward, opening up some room between the grocer and Roy.

The man snorted, "That's ridiculous. You some kind of a mascot?" He pushed past her to keep a closer eye on the still unconscious young man.

"Sir, please stay back over this way," Evvy repeated, a little louder, but he didn't budge. John, crouching down on the patient's right side, looked up again, opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it again. Roy kept his eyes on the IV he was inserting and taping down.

"Sir," Evvy said again, this time with an edge in her voice, advancing a little in the grocer's direction and sliding between him and the action, "I really need you to step back. If you can maybe go wait for the ambulance and bring them back here. . ."

"Hey, who do you think you are?" the grocer demanded hotly. "You can't tell me what to do, missy!" She didn't answer, so the grocer glared at her and headed reluctantly for the door.

"Rampart, stand by for new vitals," John said.

"Evvy," Roy said. She crouched down next to him. "The patient's pulse was 135 a minute ago. Can you take it now? And then respirations."

She took the young man's wrist and stared at the large face of her masculine watch. "One-forty," she reported, then placed a hand gently on his chest.

"Rampart, patient's pulse is one-forty, BP 100 over sixty-five, respirations . . ." John paused expectantly.

"Thirty."

John said, "Respirations thirty and shallow. Patient's skin is dry but flushed."

Roy said quietly, "Lean over and smell the patient's breath." She tipped the oxygen mask up a little and sniffed. "Smells sweet, kind of fruity?" she ventured.

"Diabetic ketoacidosis," Roy confirmed. "It's a reaction to not having enough insulin in the body. Not a drug overdose at all. That guy doesn't know what he's talking about." His faint smile seemed to add, Not about anything.

"Ambulance is here, Rampart," John said, "ETA, fifteen minutes."

John accompanied the patient in the ambulance, so Roy drove the Squad to Rampart. He was slightly less laconic without his partner around. John was a verbal processor, without much of a filter. Evvy wondered if John and Roy were really as opposite personalities as they seemed, or if it was just that Roy could never get a word in edgewise.

On the ride to the hospital, though, Roy provided feedback on Evvy's performance. "You did a good job back there, you know." He checked his mirror and changed lanes, keeping the ambulance in sight. "You can't let the citizens push you around, though."

Evvy told herself that all critiques were constructive, but his words stung a little. "He was pretty insistent," she said, trying not to sound defensive.

"Yeah," Roy allowed, "but, when you come on a scene, you have to control it. We have a job to do, and any bit of interference can lessen the chances of a favorable outcome for the patient. Sometimes it's a hysterical mother, sometimes it's a curious crowd getting in the way. And sometimes it's some guy who doesn't know what he's talking about and wants to feel important. You have to be able to control the scene."

Easy for you to say, Evvy thought. Nobody questions your authority or right to be there. As if she'd spoken aloud–and she was sure she hadn't–Roy flicked a glance her way. "Don't apologize for being there and doing what needs to be done. You have the uniform, the badge, and all the authority of the Los Angeles County Fire Department on your side. Bullies like that are gonna try to use your sex or your race against you. But you're in control of the situation, you have to be. The patient, the guy in the burning building, or the driver in the mashed-up car is counting on you to control the scene and get the job done."

"I understand what you're saying," Evvy said humbly, "and I'll do better next time."

Roy smiled as he pulled into the Rampart lot. "Yeah, I'm sure you will."

John was already re-stocking at the Base Station when Roy and Evvy walked in. His all-business demeanor was shifting back to his usual friendly manner. He seemed to be joking with the nurse behind the desk, not in a flirty way, but as if they had many miles of road behind them. He straightened as his partner approached. "And there she is now," he said, a little grandly. "Dix, meet our newest lineman, Evvy Wayfair. She's doing some ride-alongs with us for the next couple shifts. Evvy, this is Dixie McCall. She is the head nurse in the emergency department and, make no mistake, she runs the place."

The strikingly beautiful nurse, who looked slightly south of middle aged, smiled warmly. "Miss Wayfair, it's nice to finally meet you. I've heard so much about you."

"Miss McCall, pleasure to meet you. And please call me Evvy." She looked interestedly around the small station, a glass-enclosed room equipped with two large communications arrays and two ominous looking red phones.

"This is where we transmit all the patient vitals to," John explained. "It's quiet at the moment, but sometimes it's really hopping."

"Well, you guys keep us busy," said a deep, rolling voice behind them. Evvy turned to see a dark-haired doctor–by the white coat, the pocketed stethoscope, and the commanding manner–striding into the small space. "I'm Dr. Brackett, head of emergency medicine, and one of the voices at the other end of the biophone." He nodded to the white-haired man accompanying him. "And this is Dr. Early, my colleague."

Clearly suffering from white-coat syndrome, Evvy mustered a nervous smile and repeated her nickname. John smirked and leaned back against the counter, as if he knew how intimidating even this social conversation with medical deities must feel.

Nurse McCall said, "Well, it's actually a good sign that it's taken four months to meet you, Evvy. These lovely gentlemen also keep us on our toes with their dangerous stunts."

"What can I say, Dix," John grinned, batting his eyelashes at her, "we are bona fide heroes after all."

The head nurse returned his smile. "Yes. Yes, you are," she said, and she didn't seem to be joking one bit.

"So, Evvy," Dr. Early said, "any interest in joining the paramedic program, from what you've seen so far?"

"Noooo," Evvy said, with deep, heartfelt emphasis. "No way, not a chance. I am definitely not cut out for the blood and . . .," she shuddered, "stuff." Everyone laughed; they'd heard some version of this a hundred times.

Roy picked up the box of supplies and tucked it under his arm. "Eh, we'll keep working on it," he assured the doctors airily. "We'll pull her over to the side of the angels yet." With quick goodbyes, the three headed for the Squad, with John thumbing the HT. "Squad 51, available."

Evvy half paid attention to Roy's demonstration of how they filled out their paramedic logs as they sat together at the kitchen table. From time to time, he would quiz her on her observations, and remind her of details that were important to include.

There was a certain immutable logic in Engine 51's responses, Evvy mused to herself, as Roy paused to write. You roll up, a thing's on fire, you find the nearest water source or use the one you brought with you. Water covers fire, fire goes away. Or, somebody is stuck somewhere a body ought not to be stuck, you figure out the ropes and pulleys, do a little math, apply a little physics, and get them unstuck. But paramedicine–that was a totally different process. John and Roy would gather three or four and a half bits of information, and communicate it to a doctor who wasn't even on scene and couldn't see the person in distress, and somehow, they would come up with a temporary solution to keep the person alive long enough to reach the hospital. And on top of that, they had to keep that person, and anybody else on scene, calm enough to be able to get a good result. Problem solvers, medical detectives, and on-scene psychologists, all in one.

"You having a good time out there with the Squad?" Cap asked as he cruised through the kitchen and snagged one of the oatmeal cookies a nice old lady had brought by as a thank you.

"Yeah, learning a lot, Cap," she answered diplomatically.

"Am I gonna lose you to the program?" Cap asked, with a small smile.

"Well, if I ever get the urge to learn how to start an IV with my teeth while dangling out a window by my toes, I'll be sure to let you know, Cap," Evvy said, and felt Roy's rumbling chuckle from beside her.

They had finished updating the log and restocking the Squad when Stoker called them for lunch. Evvy took her place at the table and noted with silent approval Mike's choice of oven barbecued chicken. This morning's toast and jelly, eaten one-handedly in her car on the way to the station, seemed a distant memory. She bent her head and listened to the conversation as she ate.

"Got any plans for your days off?" Roy asked John as he passed him a bowl of peas. "Joanne and I were thinking of catching that new Western that's out."

"That Joanne's choice or yours?" Cap asked skeptically.

"Well, she chose last time–some sappy weeper that was a hundred and six looong minutes long. So it's my turn." He picked up his glass of milk. "Marriage is full of compromises."

"I'mma sleep as much as I can," John said. "Y'know, I looked at the calendar, and our next shift falls on a full moon, a Saturday, and Jupiter's gonna be in retrograde or something like that. All the crazies will be out. I bet we don't get a wink the whole time." There were general agreeing murmurs around the table. Firemen weren't superstitious, per se, but they had a healthy respect for the effect of the planets on the wider population. "How about you, Evvy? Any plans?" He noticed she was trying to be invisible again.

She looked up from her plate, surprised to be directly included in the conversation. "I, uh, I have a date tomorrow night, so I'll probably be spending the next day eating strawberry ice cream out of the carton and reading a romance novel to cheer myself up."

"Well, with a defeatist attitude like that," Chet said in a mock-scoldy voice, and John added, seemingly offended on her behalf, "Yeah, I mean, come on. It can't be that bad. You're a pretty enough girl, you must have guys swarming over you like flies!"

"Not the nicest image, Junior," Roy murmured, shaking his head.

"What I do have is a cousin who lives near enough to keep setting me up with blind dates," Evvy answered. "Nice guys, mostly. Things usually go well until mid-meal at some swanky restaurant, when we get around to the, So, where do you work? question. And then it all goes downhill from there."

"When you say you're a fireman?" Marco asked. Evvy nodded.

"Oh, come on, now, I don't believe that," John said, his voice rising with emphasis. "Chicks dig firemen. Even Chet can get a date if the conversation lasts long enough for him to tell a girl what he does for a living." Chet glared at him. "They love that hero thing."

"'Chicks' do," Evvy responded soberly, "but guys do not." There was a shocked, then comprehending, silence. "I can usually push it off until just before dessert, because some of these restaurants are really nice and I should at least be able to get a slice of cake out of the deal, but as soon as I say I'm an LA County firefighter, it's, 'No, really, are you a secretary?' Or, why would I want to take a man's job, what's wrong with me, am I some women's libber or freak of some sort. Then it's, 'Oh, well, will you look at the time–check, please.'" She shrugged. "At least I've gotten to eat at some of the best places in town. My cousin has quality friends."

"Well, that's a right shame," John drawled disgustedly. "Pretty girl like you–nice face, good figure–you're smart and you've got a nice personality. What's not to like?" He looked around the table at the faces and allowed that maybe he was sounding like he'd want to date her himself. "And you're not a half-bad hose jockey," he added, to keep it professional. Cap muttered, "Oh, for the love . . ." and Marco stifled a chuckle. "What?" he asked quickly, feeling like he might have stepped in it.

Evvy's Arctic, "Gee, thanks, Gage," made him close his mouth. "I feel so much better."

John was saved from having to dig himself out by the station tones. "Squad 51, woman injured, 665 East Crestview Lane, 6-6-5 East Crestview Lane, cross street, Crescent. Time out, thirteen twenty-two."

Cap responded, "Squad 51, KMG-365," and handed the call slip to Roy. Evvy found herself once again sandwiched between the two paramedics, tightening her helmet and bracing herself for another white-knuckle ride.

The Squad pulled up to a modest two-story house. There was one car parked outside, and the front door was closed. Roy tugged out the biophone and left the drug box and trauma box for John and Evvy to carry. He banged on the door with his fist, calling out, "Fire Department!"

A woman's voice answered, "The door is unlocked. I'm over here by the stairs." Roy turned the knob.

The three firefighters were greeted by the sound of hysterical yapping, followed closely by two golden brown bullets hurtling down the hall. They twined and wriggled, panting and barking, around the three pairs of black boots. It was a struggle to walk a straight line toward the staircase at the back of the house, where they found the patient, a young woman, leaning up against the wall. The telephone lay on the floor beside her, clearly yanked from the table at the bottom of the stairs.

"Hey," she said weakly. She put both hands on the floor, as if to push herself up straighter.

"Wait, just relax," Roy said, kneeling down and placing a steadying hand on her shoulder. "We need to check you out." He had to raise his voice over the deafening, high-pitched barking of the puppies. "What's your name? Can you tell us what happened?"

Evvy noticed two etched vases, miraculously unbroken, and some dead roses splayed across the floor. "Watch the water," she said, pointing to a small puddle just where John was about to kneel down. She moved the flowers aside with her foot.

"I'm Katie Fitzpatrick. I was starting to come down the stairs to swap out some flowers, and I tripped over these guys. They're experts at getting underfoot." She grimaced as Roy gently explored the gash on her forehead. "My hands were full, and I couldn't catch myself. Fell all the way down."

One of the puppies started to lick at the puddle of water. Evvy moved the dog out of the way, again with her foot. John opened the biophone and began to attach the antenna, but had to stop and move the second puppy who jumped inside the case. "Rampart, this is Squad 51."

"Did you lose consciousness at all?" Roy asked, moving his fingertips down her neck and shoulders.

"I . . . think I might have, for a couple seconds. I remember the puppies licking my face." Roy had worked his way down her leg, and she flinched and inhaled sharply when he touched her right kneecap. Roy looked up at John, who nodded and called in to Rampart.

"Evvy," Roy said, pushing a noisy, excited puppy away from the open drug box, "would you mind . . .?" He raised his eyebrows.

She reached to snatch one puppy immediately, but it took off up the stairs, yapping all the way. The other dodged her hands like a seasoned pro and dashed down the hall toward the front door. Control the scene, Evvy thought to herself ruefully, and stood up to make chase. Somehow she didn't think the little dogs would be impressed by her LA County credentials.

"Their names are Bogey and Bacall," Katie offered, her voice tight with pain. "I've been pet sitting for a friend for a couple of days."

"Which one's which?" Roy asked, flicking a light in her eyes.

"I don't even know. They don't pay attention when you call them, anyway."

John put a finger in his free ear to block out the incessant, insistent yipping coming from the stairs as he listened to Dr. Early on the biophone. He sent along the vitals, adding that the victim appeared to have a fractured knee. "She has a contusion on her forehead, but is alert and oriented." He looked up as Evvy flew up the stairs and brought the other noisy puppy down. If anything, the racket grew louder and more hysterical.

"Ten-four, 51, start IV D5W, immobilize that knee, and transport immediately."

"Ten-four, Rampart," John said.

Evvy came back, empty handed, followed by the ambulance attendants rolling their stretcher. "There's a puppy crate in the kitchen," she said, "they're both secure. I topped up the food and water, ma'am, so they'll be okay until someone can get here."

"Thank you," Katie said, sounding relieved. "My brother lives nearby. He has a key."

John moved out of the way, handing the IV bag to Evvy so he could pack up the biophone. The attendants expertly lifted the victim to the waiting stretcher, keeping her leg straight and steady, and rolled it back out to the ambulance. John climbed in behind, and Roy smacked the doors to signal the driver once they were closed and latched. Inside the house, Evvy mopped up the water spill, dumped the dead roses in the trash, and replaced the telephone apparatus on the hall table. She took the two vases to the kitchen. The puppies were still going ballistic in the crate, so she double-checked that the latch was secure.

"You ready?" Roy said, coming back down the hall. He looked around, astonished that there was no sign of the incident. He turned back toward the door and stuck his head in the kitchen. "Ready to go? Johnny won't need much time at Rampart."

"Right behind you." Honestly, if all Squad runs were this straightforward, she could live with that.