Chapter 5: Magic

The shift had been busy—but only for the squad. It had been one run after another, starting during roll call. It was Johnny's turn to cook, but by early on in the shift Cap had switched the assignment to Mike, to everyone's relief. The engine had been on a few minor runs, but the squad had been running non-stop since their first call—their monthly "child with head trapped in banister," which they were toned out for at 0803. That had been followed by a call to an office where someone had somehow stapled their finger into a booklet with a heavy-duty stapler. Why the office manager hadn't just taken the man to the hospital, booklet and all, was beyond the comprehension of either Roy or John, but they did their job straight-faced, and laughed later in the squad. The back to back calls continued all day, carrying them through lunch without a break. They were finally back in quarters, just in time to sit down for dinner.

"Maybe we'll actually get a break for long enough to—"

"Don't say it, Roy!" Johnny warned, punctuating his command with his waving fork. "Don't even think about finishing that thought!"

"–long enough to finish our supper," Roy continued calmly. "C'mon, Johnny; you know I'm not into all this superstition. It's not like the universe can somehow hear what I'm saying and give us a nasty run in the middle of dinner, just because I hope that we don't get one."

"Yeah, well, the way I figure it, you just can't be too careful," Johnny grumbled.

"I'm with you on that one, Gage," Marco said. "I can't tell you how many times someone has said something like that and five minutes later—bam!"

"Yeah, but how about all the times when someone says something like that and five minutes later, nothing?" Mike said. "Or, nobody says anything of the kind, and five minutes later we get toned out? Saying or thinking you want it to be quiet doesn't have anything to do with whether or not it's gonna be quiet. And you don't remember the things that don't seem to support some idea you already have."

Everyone stared at Mike.

"What?" he said.

"Uh, pal, that was more than you said the entire rest of the shift put together," Cap said.

"More than the whole week all put together," Chet added.

"Well, maybe I just didn't have anything to say earlier. But just then, I did." Mike served himself some more green beans. "Magical thinking, is what that's called. When you believe that the power of what you say or think somehow influences events that are really outside your control."

"What are you, a specialist of some kind, all of a sudden?" Marco said.

"Well, his title is Firefighter/Specialist Stoker," Chet said. "But somehow I don't think that's what it means."

Johnny looked at Chet. "What do you think, Chet? Do you think people should avoid saying stuff like what Roy was saying?"

Chet shook his head. "I'm gonna stay outta this one, guys."

This time everyone stared at Chet.

"Who are you guys," Cap said, "and what have you done with my crew?"

"Now that would be magical," Roy said. "If we were all suddenly abducted by aliens and replaced with exact duplicates of ourselves, who just behaved slightly differently."

Johnny shook his head in disgust. "And this from the guy who thinks I'm strange," he said. "Could you pass the potatoes, please, Stoker?"

Mike handed the dish across the table to Johnny.

"Anyone else want any more of these potatoes?" Johnny asked, as he held the bowl over his plate.

Nobody replied. "Go for it, Gage," said Cap. "At least someone is normal today," he muttered under his breath.

The men finished their dinner, and Johnny and Roy started cleaning up the kitchen. Just as Roy squeezed the dish soap into the hot water running into the sink, the tones sounded.

BWAAMP, BWOOP BWEEEEEEP!

"Squad 51, meet with law enforcement for evaluation of suspect with unknown medical complaint at the grocery store, 3156 Templeton, 3-1-5-6 Templeton, cross street McLean. Time out: 1858."

Roy stripped off his yellow rubber gloves, and Mike snatched a dish towel off of Johnny's shoulder as they trotted out to the squad, for their tenth run of the day.

"Wonder what this is gonna be," Johnny said, as they pulled out of the bay.

"Maybe somebody trying to get out of being arrested by pretending to be sick?" Roy said.

"Nah, then they'd tell us what they thought was wrong. Odd behavior, maybe? That could account for the arrest and the possible medical problem."

"Well, we'll see it when we see it," Roy said. "And—did you notice we made it all the way through dinner, and even got out of doing the dishes, even though I angered the Fire Gods by hoping for a break?"

"Yeah, yeah," Johnny said. "Whatever. I still think it's a mistake to—take the next left—no, I don't mean it's a mistake to take the next left—yeah, this one—but what I meant, was, I still think it's a mistake to tempt fate. Here's the cross street."

Roy pulled the squad into the fire lane in front of the grocery store, and they unloaded their equipment from the compartments. A man in a suit rushed up to them as they headed through the entrance.

"Come quick! We thought he was just nuts, but now he's having some kind of seizure!"

The store manager led them into a side area of the store, where a sheriff's deputy was moving furniture away from their patient, who was indeed having a grand mal seizure. Johnny put an oxygen mask onto the patient's face, while Roy set up the biophone.

"What was happening before he started to seize?" Johnny asked.

The manager spoke up. "I called the cops because he was walking around the store doing really weird things—putting cosmetics in the freezers, trying to open a can with his teeth, and asking people for money. He was all sweaty and shaky, like he was maybe on something. And he was kind of hostile, too. So I called the cops, and then they called for you guys. I feel terrible—I guess he was really sick or something."

"Or something," Johnny agreed. "Did anyone see him fall, or anything like that?" He palpated the seizing man's skull as well as he could in the circumstances, and found no indication of trauma. Roy, meanwhile, reported the situation to Rampart.

"No," said the deputy. "He was in that chair when he started having the seizure, and I got him down to the floor as gently as I could."

Johnny's next stop was the man's wrists, and he found exactly what he thought he would find. He held the man's arm down just enough to read the words on the MedicAlert bracelet.

"Hey, Roy?"

"Diabetic?" Roy asked.

"Yep."

"Rampart, patient has a MedicAlert tag confirming diabetes. We're unable to get an IV line in at this time due to the seizure."

"10-4, 51; administer glucagon, one milligram, IM."

"One milligram glucagon IM, 10-4."

Johnny was already reconstituting the drug he knew Rampart would order. He cut through the man's pant leg, and administered the injection into the patient's thigh muscle as Roy held his leg as still as possible.

"Glucagon in," Johnny said.

"Rampart, glucagon is on board," Roy reported.

"Copy, 51. When the seizing stops, get an IV line in, and administer D10W and transport."

Within a minute, the seizure tapered off. A minute later, the man's eyelids started to flutter, and he tugged at the oxygen mask on his face and tried to sit up.

"Oh, shit," he mumbled.

"Sir? We're paramedics with the LA County Fire Department. It looks like you had a hypoglycemic episode; you had a seizure and we just treated you with a glucagon injection." Roy helped him sit up, since he seemed to want to, and it wouldn't hurt him.

"Crap," the man said, sounding stronger. He looked around, and saw a man in a suit, a sheriff's deputy, and two firemen. "I remember—we're at a grocery store, right?"

"Yes," Roy replied.

"I stopped on the way home from work, to get some juice, because I was starting to feel like my sugar was getting low. I guess I was too late. Again." The man buried his head in his hands. "Jesus, this is so embarrassing."

"Uh, could someone please explain this?" the store manager asked.

"When a diabetic's blood sugar gets too low, they can start having unusual behavior. Whatever happened was because of that," Roy explained. "Not under his control. Not his fault," he said, partly to the manager and the deputy, and partly to the patient.

"I thought it might be something like that," the deputy said.

"And it's a good thing you did, too," the patient said, casually filling in what Roy and Johnny were carefully not voicing. "Because this sort of thing can be fatal. Right?" He looked at Johnny, who was setting up the IV.

"It could," Johnny said, "but you're gonna be fine. The hospital told us to give you an IV with a sugar solution, and to bring you in, all right?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I know the drill. Damn it, every time we have a late meeting, something like this happens. Well—" he winced as Johnny deftly inserted the IV line— "obviously not this bad, but you know."

Roy began packing up the equipment, just as the ambulance attendants wheeled the low gurney in.

"Am I in trouble?" the man asked, finally, looking back and forth between the manager and the deputy.

"No, no; of course not," the manager said hastily. "I mean, we had to call him—" he tilted his head towards the deputy— "because, well … uh …"

The patient sighed, as the attendants buckled him onto the gurney. "I know, I know; I was acting like I was on something, or crazy, or whatever. Look—I'll call the store when I get home, and pay for anything I damaged or anything like that."

The manager shook his head. "No, no harm done. I just wish I'd understood what was happening so we could've gotten you help sooner."

"Thanks," the man said. "I appreciate it—really."

Johnny left with the gurney, and Roy picked up the equipment. After the patient left, the manager spoke up again.

"I still don't really get it," he said.

Roy put the heaviest equipment down. "The brain needs two things to work: oxygen, and glucose—the simplest kind of sugar. When a diabetic takes insulin, but doesn't eat enough, or doesn't eat soon enough, or has any number of things happen that can upset the balance, their blood sugar can get really low. It's like an engine that's running on fumes—it kind of sputters. When they have a seizure like he did, it can be deadly, because it makes your brain and body use more fuel—the sugar it's already short on—and it can spiral downwards fast enough to kill you. So it's a good thing you called someone."

The manager shook his head. "The wrong someone, though. I feel terrible—I really thought he was insane, or on drugs."

"It's hard to tell," Roy said. "But the deputy recognized he needed medical help. They're working on ways for the people who answer emergency calls to try to figure out more about what's going on, so they know who to send."

"That would sure be good—I just asked for the cops because, well, he was acting really weird. I didn't even stop to think he might be sick."

"It's all right," Roy said. "He's going to be fine, and you all did fine."

"And you guys were amazing," the manager said. "Here, let me help you carry some things back out to your fire truck, or whatever. I mean, it seemed like you already knew what was happening as soon as you looked at him." They walked out to the squad, with the manager carrying the IV box and the biophone. "And this phone thing—you were able to talk to the hospital without any wires, or anything!"

Roy opened the compartments on the squad and started loading the equipment back in.

"Thanks for your help," the manager said.

"Any time," Roy said, as he slammed the compartments shut. He was about to get into the squad, but noticed that the manager was still standing there, looking like he wanted to say something else.

"Can I help you with something else?" Roy asked.

"Uh, I guess I have a question. Do you know where I could get a class on basic first aid? You know, so in case something else ever happens at the store, I might have some clue what to do while waiting for you pros, you know?"

Roy smiled, and took out his notebook. He wrote something down and handed it to the man. "That's a great idea. You can call this number at Rampart. They'll hook you up with community first aid and CPR courses. And you can call Station 51 at the second number any time, if you want training for your staff on how to use fire extinguishers properly, and for fire safety information."

The man nodded. "Thanks a lot. I'll do that. I'll do all of that. And thanks again for your help today."

"Our pleasure," Roy said. "Take care."

"You too."

Roy drove to Rampart, where Johnny was already chatting up one of the new student nurses.

"And we guessed it, even before we got to the store, that it'd be a behavior incident of some kind. Of course, once we knew he was diabetic, we had things under control in no time flat. Like magic!" He snapped his fingers, while the nurse looked like she'd rather be someplace else.

"You ready to roll, Junior?"

"Huh?"

The student nurse looked at Roy with relief. "I guess you have to go, Johnny. It was nice talking to you." She sped off to a treatment room that Roy was pretty sure was empty, looking official as she carried a tray into the room.

"Squad 51, available," Roy said into the HT. "C'mon, let's get back to the station. You can tell Chet and Marco about your glucagon treatment." Roy snapped his fingers. "Magic!"

TBC