Chapter 10: Close to Home, Part 2 of 2
Roy backed the squad into the already open bay. Chet ran out from the day room to usher them in.
"C'mon, hurry! Marco hurt himself at the last scene, and didn't say anything, and I guess it's worse than he thought, because Cap—oh man, poor Cap!—clapped him on the shoulder, and down he went. He's really hurting, guys," Chet said, helping carry equipment into the day room.
Roy and Johnny entered the day room to find Marco seated in a chair, his right arm supported by a couch cushion someone had placed on his lap. His face, several shades paler than was normal for him, was dotted in sweat, and his jaw was visibly clenched. His uniform shirt had been removed and draped over another chair at the table, and the kitchen wastebasket was sitting ominously between his knees.
"Marco, what happened?" Roy said.
"I … I had an accident at the apartment fire this evening. I, uh, landed on my arm pretty hard, I think, and my elbow and shoulder are just killing me." Marco was satisfied with the new wording of his explanation. It wasn't an outright lie, even though it wasn't by far the whole truth.
"All right. Anything else besides that arm?" Roy asked.
"No, that seems like plenty to me," Marco said. He knew he'd have a bruise on his belly, where the guy punched him, but there was no reason they needed to know that. It was just a bruise.
"I'm sure it is plenty. Let's have a look," Roy said, while Johnny got an initial set of vitals. He set up the biophone, even though they were right next to the station's phone, because phone-line calls didn't get recorded, and the county's EMS system now required that everything be recorded unless it wasn't possible.
Roy gently palpated Marco's shoulder, starting from the neck and working his way outwards. The joint seemed aligned, not dislocated, but was visibly swollen compared to his left side. The collarbone seemed intact, and Marco didn't flinch when Roy ran his fingers over it, until he got to the place where the collarbone approached the outside edge of the shoulder. Marco hissed in pain.
"Sorry," Roy said. He gently felt the back of Marco's shoulder; again, the bones seemed free of major fractures, but when his probing fingers approached the outside of the shoulder, Marco reacted. Roy continued to feel down Marco's upper arm.
"Any pain in the upper arm, between your shoulder and your elbow?"
"I don't think so," Marco said, between clenched teeth. "The shoulder and elbow are so bad I can't really tell, though. And from my elbow, it shoots down my arm into my fingers."
Roy reached Marco's elbow, and Marco made a short, strangled sound, and broke out in a fresh sheen of sweat.
"That's the spot," he said. "Oh shit, I think I'm gonna—"
Roy supported Marco's arm as he retched into the strategically placed wastebasket. Chet got him some water, and he rinsed and spat.
"Sorry, Marco," Roy repeated. He continued down Marco's forearm, and still didn't feel any obvious fractures.
"Do you think it's broken?" Marco asked. "I mean, it hurts a whole lot, but until just now, I was … getting by."
"I don't know." Roy said. "I didn't feel any major displaced fractures, but that doesn't mean much. And connective tissue injuries can really hurt a lot too. You definitely need to have it x-rayed, though."
"Yeah," Marco said. "I guess I can't just ignore it and hope it will go away."
"You sure can't, pal," said Cap. "Right now, I want you to take care of yourself, but later, we're going to have a conversation about this."
"Sorry, Cap," Marco said. "I'm sorry."
"Don't worry about it now. Just get to the hospital, and when you can, let us know how you are, okay pal?"
"Yeah. I will. Sorry."
"Marco, we're gonna need to splint up your arm, and I kind of think it might be a good idea for you to have some pain medication on board before we do that. If you're hurting so bad you're vomiting, you need it."
"Okay," Marco said wanly. "As long as it doesn't make me puke anymore."
"I can't guarantee that," Roy said. "Most of the painkillers have nausea as a side effect."
"Marco, trust me on this—let us give you something if Rampart says it's okay," Johnny said.
"Come on, Marco," Chet said. "If anyone would know, it's Gage, since he's been on both ends of that needle more times than anyone I know."
"Ha ha," Johnny said, "but he's right."
"Okay," Marco said.
"Lemme get on the horn to Rampart," Johnny said. "Marco, on a scale of zero to ten, where zero is no pain and ten is the worst you can imagine, where would you put yourself right now?"
"It was probably a five right after it happened, but about a seven or eight now. I don't really want to imagine a ten."
"Don't blame you there," Johnny said. "Rampart, this is Squad 51."
"Go ahead, 51." Johnny recognized Joe Early's voice at the other end of the line.
"Rampart, we have a 28-year-old fireman with an elbow and shoulder injury after a fall on the job. He's conscious and alert and has no other injuries. Vitals are: respirations twenty, pulse ninety-five, and BP 140/84. There are no obvious fractures or displacement, but both joints are visibly swollen. The patient rates his pain as seven to eight, with radiation from the elbow to the fingertips. He vomited when the elbow injury was palpated."
"Copy, 51. Fifty milligrams meperidine IM, splint, and transport."
Johnny acknowledged Rampart's instructions on the biophone. "Ten-four, Rampart. Fifty milligrams meperidine IM, splint, and transport."
Marco felt mildly guilty about causing Johnny to pass along a lie. But it was true, sort of. He did fall. It was just that other things happened first.
"Mike, could you get us an ambulance dispatched, non-code-R?" Johnny asked, as Roy drew up the dose of Demerol.
"Sure thing, Gage." Mike trotted out to the call station to contact dispatch.
"Do I seriously have to go in an ambulance? Can't I just go in the squad, since I won't have an IV or anything?"
Johnny shook his head. "Sorry, pal. The rule is, if we medicate, you're transported by ambulance. Plus, think about it—a seatbelt on that shoulder would be pretty grim."
Roy prepped a spot on Marco's left shoulder. "Here comes the shot." He sent the needle home, and Marco didn't flinch.
"We'll give that a few minutes to kick in, and then get you splinted up," Johnny said. "It'll probably make you feel stupid and drowsy, but if you're puking from pain, you need it."
"I guess it was more this sickening feeling—that something's wrong, you know? That was what made me throw up, I think," Marco said. "Not so much the pain. But it does hurt a lot."
"Well, all those things are your body talking to you," Johnny said.
"I guess I should've listened to it," Marco admitted.
Mike returned to the ready room. "ETA is five minutes."
Marco sighed, and waited. Nobody knew quite what to say, least of all him.
"Could I have some more water, please?" he asked.
"Sure," Roy said. "Not too much, though. Just a few small sips."
Marco rinsed and spat again, and took a few sips, and waited some more.
The Mayfair rig pulled up into the back parking lot, and Marco watched as Mike opened the kitchen door for them.
Whoa.
Suddenly, the room and its furnishings seemed larger, and all his firefighter friends seemed very, very tiny. He laughed at how small Chet looked, leaning against a gigantic brown refrigerator.
"Uh huh," Johnny said. "And is your arm feeling any better?"
"What?" Marco asked.
"I'll take that as a 'yes,'" Johnny replied. "Okay, pal. Let's get you splinted up. You have your arm bent, now, so I'm guessing that's the most comfortable position for it?"
"Sure, Johnny. Whatever you say."
Johnny pulled a bent-arm splint out of their splint bag, along with various items for padding. "I'll try not to move it around too much, but it's probably gonna hurt, so I'm sorry. Roy, you wanna support his forearm while I—yeah, perfect. Okay, Marco, I'll try to make this quick."
"Okay. Uh, ow, OW!"
"Sorry, man. Roy, a little more padding under the—okay. That looks good."
"Fuck, Gage, OW!" Marco didn't say anything else, but shut his eyes tightly and groaned through clenched teeth.
Chet took a step backwards, eyebrows raised. He'd never, ever heard his best friend utter that particular word, and had teased him mercilessly about it. But he decided, when he saw a tear form when Marco closed his eyes tightly, that he would never, ever mention it. Ever.
"Sorry, Marco. That part's all done. I'm just going to secure your arm to your chest, around your back like this—that'll keep your shoulder from moving around. One more around, and … done. Take a breather, pal."
Marco literally just concentrated on breathing, or, more to the point, not puking while breathing, for a minute or so. He gradually unclamped his eyelids, and discovered that he'd somehow forgotten once again how much his arm was hurting. Which was fine with him.
"Better?" Johnny asked.
"Yeah. Sorry I yelled at you."
"Hey, I deserved it, right?" Johnny said lightly. "Okay, let's get this show on the road."
Johnny looked at Chet, who looked nearly as bad as Marco, and decided Chet might feel better if he got to help somehow.
"Chet, you wanna help Marco get to the stretcher, while we pack up here? And Cap, Marco will need his wallet and keys, for when they send him home."
"Sure. C'mon, Lopez. No more malingering. Time to get up," Chet said, taking Marco's good arm and helping him up. Once he had Marco standing, he let him adjust to being upright, and then moved him along towards the stretcher, which was only a yard away.
"You're really short," Marco said, "especially next to the fridge."
"Sure, pal. Okay, sit yourself down there, nice and easy …" Chet swung Marco's legs up onto the stretcher, and let the attendants buckle him in. Cap returned with the wallet and keys, and handed them to Roy, minus the car key, which he held onto.
"You wanna ride in with him, Johnny, and I'll take the squad?" Roy asked.
"You bet. See you there."
The phone rang just as Marco was being wheeled out.
"You take care, Marco. Let us know how you're doing when you can."
"Sure, Cap."
Captain Stanley answered the phone as Mike and Chet wished Marco well, and the squad and the ambulance departed for Rampart.
"L.A. County Fire Department, Station 51, Captain Stanley speaking."
"Hi, Hank. Jesse Roberts here."
"Jesse!" Hank greeted his friend, a Sheriff's Deputy who occasionally responded to calls with Station 51. "How can we help you?"
"Well, Hank, I'm at a scene that I believe your crew was just at—a fire at Highland Park apartments—dealing with a few things. The occupants of the apartment across the hall from the one the fire was in just reported some things missing, and I was wondering if you or any of your men had seen anything unusual."
"Hang on a second. We're a little discombobulated here at the moment, because as it turns out, one of our guys got hurt at that scene, and we just saw him off to the hospital. Can I call you back in a few minutes?"
"Actually, why don't I call you back, since I'm still at the scene."
"Of course. I only have two men still here right now, but I'll ask them, and think about it myself. Five minutes should be plenty."
"Okay. Talk to you then."
Hank hung up the phone, and frowned. This fire was quickly turning into one of his least favorite incidents in recent memory.
"Ask us what, Cap?" Mike said, once Hank turned around.
"That was a deputy who's at our last scene. The apartment across from the unit where the fire was seems to have been burglarized, and he's wondering if we saw anything unusual."
Chet spoke up immediately. "Cap, I went back out to the engine to get some salvage covers, and when I was coming back through the hallway, I thought I heard something coming from 3-B. I knocked on the door, and it opened. I took a quick look inside, but didn't see anyone, and nobody answered when I hollered, so I forgot all about it, especially since Marco was down when I got back into the fire unit."
Cap nodded. "Okay. I'm guessing the deputy will want to talk to you. Mike, did you see anything unusual?"
Mike frowned. "Well, Cap, there was that guy. The big guy, who kind of got in your face. I didn't hear what you were saying to him, or vice versa, but he seemed … off."
"You're absolutely right, Mike—he was strange. But then he sat down with his girlfriend, who was the occupant of the fire unit, so I chalked it up to nerves." Cap's eyebrows met in the middle as he frowned again. "Say, I don't recall seeing him with her when we were leaving. It didn't bother me then, but, don't you think he'd stick around?"
Mike nodded. "Yeah, Cap. And you're right—he definitely wasn't there. I did notice that the lady from the apartment seemed to be kind of looking around, like maybe she was wondering where he went."
"Marco might have heard something—though probably not, from inside the apartment we were working in. I'll ask him when we get a chance to catch up."
"Good plan," Cap said. "And now, I need to get on to my task of finding us a sub. Since dispatch knows we're down a man, we'll only get called out for second alarms or else really minor things, so enjoy your time while you have it."
Cap disappeared into his office, and Mike and Chet headed to the apparatus bay. Chet stopped for a moment, and Mike nearly collided with him.
"I need to talk to Cap for a minute," he said. "I'll be out in a sec."
"Sure," Mike said, having a pretty good idea what Chet was going to ask.
Chet tapped on the open door of Cap's office.
"Kelly? Come on in," Cap said.
Chet closed the door.
"What's on your mind, pal?" Cap asked, though he already could guess.
"Well, don't take this the wrong way, but I'm kinda hoping you won't be too rough on Marco for not saying anything about how bad he was hurting. I mean, we all do it. None of us likes to wimp out, you know? And it's just his bad luck that it really did turn out to be something he couldn't ignore."
Cap sighed. "Yeah, I know. And it's his bad luck that I clapped him on the shoulder like that, too. If I'd known, of course I wouldn't have … well, there's no point in dwelling on that. If I'd known, we wouldn't be having this discussion at all, now would we?"
"Uh, I guess not, Cap."
"Don't worry, Kelly. I will have to have a word with him, but I won't be too mad. After all, like you said, we all try to push through things like this once in a while, so it's not a big deal."
~!~!~!~
Marco hardly noticed the short trip to Rampart. Except for his one bizarre remark to Chet, he turned out to be a person who got quieter, rather than louder, on opiates. Johnny didn't mind; he found himself thinking about times that he'd concealed injuries of his own. He hoped Cap wouldn't be too hard on Marco. Johnny had pulled the same stunt so many times that Cap had a right to be annoyed, but this was a first for Marco.
They pulled up in the ambulance area of the ER entrance, and Johnny and the two Mayfair attendants wheeled Marco in. Dixie was there to greet them.
"Treatment three, gentlemen," she said. "Dr. Early will be in momentarily."
"Mind if I wait with him, Dix?" Johnny asked.
"Sure." Dixie smiled back at both of them. All the paramedics, at all stations, on all shifts, were highly protective of their own men, so everyone cut them a little slack when it was one of their own that they brought in. Dispatch wasn't even so quick to ask for a status report, once they heard "Code I."
Dr. Early appeared within a minute or two.
"Hey, Doc; this is my buddy Marco Lopez. He fell at a fire scene earlier, and landed real bad on his elbow and shoulder. But," Johnny said sheepishly, "I guess I told you all that on the radio."
Early smiled his mild smile back at him. "That's all right, John. So, Mr. Lopez, I'm Dr. Early. Could you please tell me, in your own words, what happened? And then we'll get some x-rays."
"Well," Marco said slowly, "it's like Johnny said, pretty much. I landed with my arm stretched out, like this," he said, demonstrating with his left arm, "and something 'went' in my elbow."
"Did you hear any sound? A popping, or cracking? Any kind of sound, Mr. Lopez?"
Marco shook his head, and winced as the movement jarred his shoulder. "No. Just pain. And kind of a sick feeling. And please call me Marco."
"And that's when you hurt your shoulder, too?"
Marco hesitated, and the observant doctor noticed his eyes flick over to Johnny, and then back again. "Uh, I guess so."
"All right," Dr. Early said, filing the hesitation away for the moment. "Let me have a look, and then we'll get some x-rays. Once those are done, we'll talk about what to do next."
Just then, Roy popped in to the treatment room.
"Hey, Marco—you doing okay?"
"Yeah, Roy. I guess so."
"Dixie's got your keys and wallet up at the nurses' station," Roy said.
"Thanks."
Johnny stood up from his seat next to the exam table. "Marco, me and Roy better get back to work. You let them take care of you, all right? The folks here are the best."
"Thanks, Johnny. I will." Marco was secretly relieved Roy and Johnny were leaving; if he had to yell again, he'd rather do it in front of strangers than friends.
Marco gritted his teeth as Dr. Early partially unwrapped the splint to check the injury.
"I don't want to take this off all the way; I just need to feel if anything's out of place."
"Okay, Doc. I'll try not to yell too loud."
As he promised, Dr. Early was indeed very gentle, but Marco couldn't hold in a single yelp as the doctor palpated the most tender part of his elbow.
"All right, I'm done with that for now. Let's get some x-rays, and then we'll see what's next."
Marco closed his eyes—just for a minute, he promised himself—and tried not to think about anything at all.
~!~!~!~
Thirty minutes later, Joe Early studied the x-rays in the privacy of his office first, before going back to see his patient. He was immediately concerned when he got his first look at the x-rays: they didn't tell the same story that his patient had. Put together with the subtle body language he'd observed earlier, the doctor knew he had a problem on his hands. He double-checked the name on the x-rays, even though he was quite sure there were no other ER patients with arm injuries at the moment, and took the x-rays down from the lightbox to show to his patient.
Marco opened his eyes when the doctor returned to the room.
"That was quick," he said.
"It actually took a little longer than usual, but time can pass strangely when you have opiates in your system. How is your pain, by the way?"
"I guess it must be better, since I think I just fell asleep."
"All right." Dr. Early put the x-rays up on the lightbox on the wall, and turned the backlights on. "Let me show you what I see, here." He pointed to a picture of the elbow joint. "The good news is that there don't appear to be any fractures. What it looks like here, is that the radius—one of the two bones in the forearm—has been pulled away from the elbow joint. Right now, the end of the radius near your elbow is slightly out of place. This injury is fairly common in young children who have had their arms accidentally or purposely pulled, but more unusual in adults. It's likely that the sensation of the pain shooting down your arm into your fingers is coming from a pinched nerve, which can be quite painful."
"Oh," Marco said. He didn't really know what he was looking at, but he took the doctor's word for it.
"There's something similar in your shoulder. It's not a true dislocation, because the top of your upper arm bone is still in the socket, but frankly, it looks like it was pulled out of the socket at some point, and popped back in on its own. The end of your upper arm bone is farther from the other bones than it should be. Not by much, but enough to cause the symptoms you're experiencing."
"Okay," Marco said. Once again, he didn't really know what he was looking at.
Dr. Early turned the lightbox off, and looked directly at Marco.
"I do have a concern that I'd like to ask you about."
Marco gulped. He'd heard the doctor say "pulled" several times, and had an idea of what might be coming. "Okay," he said.
"These injuries—both of them—aren't really consistent with just falling on your outstretched arm. Is there anything else you'd like to tell me about?"
Marco hesitated for a moment.
"It's important, Marco," Dr. Early said. "I'm not accusing you of anything. It's just important that your injuries are treated correctly, and right now I have some doubts about my diagnosis."
Dr. Early's steady gaze, his nonjudgmental attitude, and the good things he'd heard about the man from Roy and John came together, and Marco made his decision.
"I didn't just fall," he said quietly.
"All right," Dr. Early said. "Would you like to tell me exactly what happened?"
"I screwed up," Marco said. "Big time. I didn't even really mean to. I was on the floor when my partner came back, and it was just so much easier to say I'd fallen, than it would've been to say, uh … "
Dr. Early didn't rush him, or push him in any way. He just waited.
Marco cleared his throat. "Uh, to say that a guy had pretty much beaten me up. He, uh, came into the apartment while Chet was out getting something—I guess he probably thought nobody was there. He … uh, told me to get out, but I didn't really get why he'd say that—I mean, I'd just instructed him to get out, because it wasn't a safe place to be. And he just yanked my pike pole out of my hands, and shoved me."
"Go on," Dr. Early said neutrally.
"I should've just left, and gotten the cops in there—I know that now. But I just couldn't believe what was happening, so I picked myself up, and went to see what he was doing, which was really stupid, because I'm pretty sure now that he was getting his drug stash out of the freezer. He saw me, and … that's when he pretty much yanked my arm right out of the socket," Marco said in a rush. "Then he punched me in the gut, and tossed me on the floor like I was nothing. He was a big guy. Maybe even taller than Cap, so probably six feet five. And big. Like probably two-fifty."
"I'm sure he must have been big," Dr. Early said. "You firemen are a tough lot. I don't imagine anyone close to your size would've been able to do that kind of damage."
Dr. Early had picked exactly the right thing to say, and Marco immediately felt more at ease.
"In any case: it's a simple non-surgical procedure to put the end of your radius back where it needs to be. It will be uncomfortable, but only for a few seconds, and then hopefully it will feel much better. My opinion is that your shoulder and elbow both just need immobilization in a sling for a while, but I'd like you to follow up in a few days with one of our orthopedists who specializes in upper extremity injuries. He's a former baseball player, and really knows arms. We'll have you out of here and feeling much better in no time."
"Thanks, Doc. I really appreciate it. And … I'm sorry you didn't get the whole truth. I mean, I'm sorry I didn't tell the truth."
"I was only worried about making sure the diagnosis matched the injury, so you would get proper treatment. But I'd like to make a suggestion about something else that might make you feel better."
Marco knew what was coming. "Fess up, you mean. Yeah. I'll do that. I know I need to. I'll talk to my captain tomorrow at a decent hour. And I'll tell the rest of the guys, too."
"I know Hank Stanley well enough to know that he'll be most concerned that you'll recover well, which you should, in three or four weeks. But he may not understand why you said what you did, or didn't say what you should have, more to the point. Before you talk to him, I think it would be a good idea for you to have a clear idea in your own mind about why you didn't tell the truth to begin with."
"I know why, Doc. It's humiliating. The idea of a civilian just marching in and tossing me around, when I'm supposed to be this tough guy, doing a tough-guy job—that's just downright embarrassing."
"That's understandable." Dr. Early made himself a mental note to bring this particular case up with Dr. Morton at their next meeting, as an example of how good bedside manner can lead to a better outcome for a patient.
"So let's get this thing over with, Dr. Early," Marco said. "Putting that bone back where it belongs."
"That sounds like a good plan. I'm going to have a nurse come in and give you a muscle relaxant, and another dose of pain reliever—not because it's going to be incredibly painful to reduce that elbow, but because the dose you got in the field was the smallest dose, and I think you'll be more comfortable with a bit more in your system. Then we'll do a quick reduction, and a couple hours after that, you should be able to go home, with a prescription for pain medication, and a day's worth to tide you over until you can get it filled tomorrow."
"Okay."
"The nurse will be in shortly, and we'll let the medications start to work for a little while, so I'll see you in half an hour or so."
"Thanks, Doc." Marco checked the clock on the wall—nearly midnight, so too late to make any calls.
~!~!~!~
Four hours later, mind and body exhausted and hurting, Marco exited a cab in front of his apartment building. He fumbled his apartment door open, downed one of the tablets he'd been sent home with, and fell into his bed.
He was awakened by the phone just after eight. He was jolted awake by the pain when he tried to use his injured arm to answer the phone, having forgotten about the previous night's events. He swore out loud, and turned so he could pick the phone up with his left hand.
"Hello?"
"Hey, Marco—sorry I woke you up," Chet's voice said. "But John and I are gonna swing by and drop your car off in about fifteen minutes. And I wanted to see you how are, too."
"I'm … I guess I'm okay. Nothing's broken, and I'm just in a sling, but it sounds like I'll be out for a couple weeks."
"That stinks, man. Sorry to hear it."
"Yeah. But I guess it could've been a lot worse, too. Uh—is Cap still around?"
"Uh huh—he's in the office. You want me to ask him to pick up?"
"Yeah, thanks."
"Okay—I'll tell him. See you in a few, all right?"
"Thanks."
Marco's stomach churned at the thought of talking to his captain, but he also wanted to get it over with.
"Hey, pal—are you doing okay?"
"Yeah, Cap. Thanks. Listen—I need to tell you something."
"All right," Cap said neutrally.
"First, I'm really sorry for not saying right away that I was hurt."
"Well, I can't say I'm not disappointed about that, but I think that won't happen again, right, pal?"
"Darned straight it won't." Marco cleared his throat. "But there's something else I need to tell you about that also won't happen again."
"Oh?" For one sick second, Cap thought Marco might be about to say he'd taken something from the apartment across the hall.
"I, uh … wasn't completely truthful about what happened."
Marco's stomach tied itself in an even tighter not during the few seconds of silence before Cap replied.
"I see," Cap said finally, his stomach also scrambling into knots. "Go on."
Marco spilled the entire story, keeping it neutral and one hundred percent truthful. He left any rationalizations or justifications until the very end.
"And I'm really sorry I lied, Cap. I was just so embarrassed about what happened that I used really poor judgment."
Cap was silent again for a few more tense seconds, as he was simultaneously relieved and concerned.
"Marco, what did this guy look like?"
Marco's eyebrows popped up at Cap's unexpected response. "That's easy. Huge. Six five, two fifty. Dark flannel shirt and jeans. Why?"
Cap sighed, and told the rest of the story.
Marco felt himself getting smaller and smaller as he heard what else had happened.
"So you're going to need to talk to the sheriff, as soon as possible, and tell them what you saw."
"All right."
There was another awkward moment of silence.
"Look," Cap said finally. "You know I can't just ignore this."
"I know," Marco said. "I'll take what's coming to me."
"I know you will. We've never had any problems before, so I'm comfortable with a verbal warning. Consider yourself verbally warned that this needs to not ever happen again. Any of it. I expect that if you're injured on the job, you'll say so immediately. And I expect that if you see anything suspicious, you'll say so immediately as well. If there weren't the extenuating circumstance of your also being injured, I'd have to write you up for not mentioning this fellow, but I don't see the need for that in this particular instance."
Marco sighed with relief. "Thanks, Cap. And I promise you, it won't happen again. Any of it."
"I know it won't. And I also know you're beating yourself up over it. See if you can keep that down to a dull roar, all right? You're hurting enough already."
"I'll try."
"One more thing. I'm not going to say anything to the others."
"But I should," Marco finished for him. "I will."
"Good."
"Sorry," Marco said, one last time.
"Apology accepted, Marco. And we all hope you're doing okay. Call if you need anything, all right? No, scratch that—I'll check in on you later, and see what you need. And you better not hold back, okay?"
"I promise, Cap. Thanks. For everything."
"You're welcome. Now rest up. John and Chet will be there soon with your car."
Marco hung up his phone, and for the thousandth time, praised his lucky stars for ending up with a captain like Hank Stanley. He praised those same stars again ten minutes later, when a tap on his door heralded the arrival of Chet and Johnny.
"Just a second," he called loudly, as he heaved himself out of bed. He was slightly embarrassed to be answering the door in the same uniform pants and t-shirt they'd put him in the ambulance in the previous night, and he knew he didn't smell good, either. But they were his friends, and they'd seen worse.
Marco opened the door, and it was indeed Johnny and Chet. "Hey, guys, come on in. I'd get you something, but I don't really have anything, and probably couldn't get it anyhow."
"Want me to make you some coffee?" Chet offered. "Or do you want us to go, so you can get back to bed?"
"Uh … actually, if you guys wouldn't mind sticking around for a cup of coffee, that'd be great."
"Sure thing, Marco," Johnny said. "We all had a super easy night, thanks to you, so no problem. You sit down, and me and Chet will take care of coffee. Say," Johnny continued, frowning, "you probably haven't had a thing to eat, have you?"
"Uh, no."
"Do you have eggs? Bread? Milk?" Johnny asked.
"I think so," Marco said.
"Good. I'll make us all breakfast. And then me and Chet will go to the store, and get you set for a couple days, and get your prescription filled."
"How did you know I—"
Johnny shook his head. "C'mon, man—it's me."
"Right." Marco smiled for the first time since before the incident the previous night. "Thanks."
He allowed himself to relax while his friends made breakfast, and allowed himself to have one more sinking feeling: his mother was going to go ballistic when she heard he'd gotten hurt at work.
The three of them sat at Marco's tiny table. Marco poked at his eggs with his fork in his left hand. He could tell he was hungry, and wasn't feeling sick from the medication any more, but still had that feeling in his stomach.
"You feeling okay?" Johnny asked.
"Uh …" Marco put his fork down. "I have to apologize to both of you," he said.
Johnny shook his head. "No need. It happens. Besides, you didn't do anything wrong."
Marco didn't say anything.
Chet frowned. "Did you?"
Marco sighed, and steeled himself for something that was going to be even more unpleasant than the reduction of his elbow. "Yeah. Yeah, Chet, I did. I didn't tell the truth about what really happened."
Even Johnny put his fork down when he heard that.
Chet and Johnny listened as Marco told his true story for the third time. It was harder this time, rather than easier, and he understood why, when he got to the apologies he'd promised.
"So Chet, I apologize to you, because I could've put you in danger by not being fit to respond, and by not telling anyone about that guy. And Johnny—I made you pass along information that wasn't true. So both of you, I'm truly sorry."
They all sat there silently for a few seconds while they digested what Marco had told them.
"When I was seventeen," Chet said finally, "I got beat up by two bullies at school. I was a senior; they were sophomores. I told my parents I'd fallen down the stairs. A couple weeks later, those same two kids beat the crap out of a freshman."
"One time," Johnny said, "I hurt myself at the beginning of a shift—just a little bit, mind you—and didn't say anything to anyone. Me and Roy worked a full arrest later, and the guy didn't make it. For the rest of my life, I'm gonna second guess whether my CPR was good enough, or whether my sore wrist got in the way."
"I guess this is the kind of thing that a lot of people learn the hard way," Marco said.
"Yep," said Johnny.
"I'll second that," Chet said.
"Thanks, guys," Marco said. "I really mean it."
~!~!~!~
Four weeks later, Marco was fit as a fiddle and back at work. Cap announced at roll call that the shift would begin with a meeting to discuss some issues. The six men sat at the table in the day room.
"First of all, I want to say that this discussion is not aimed at anyone in particular. I'm going to be talking about something that I think we've all experienced before. Every single one of us. Including me."
Marco shrank into his seat, understanding what the discussion was going to be about.
"What I'm talking about, folks, is recognition of an aspect of scene safety that I think we all neglect from time to time."
The other five men looked up—none of them had been expecting that would be the topic.
"What's that, Cap?" Roy asked.
"People," Cap said. "We know about traffic as a hazard. We know about flashover, backdraft, hazardous materials, building collapse, trench rescues—the list goes on and on for things we're well trained to be aware of. But recently, there have been several incidents, in this department and elsewhere, in which emergency personnel have been intentionally injured or even killed by civilians at the scene. So here's what's going to happen. Over the next three months, every active duty firefighter in the county is going to be trained in violence awareness and prevention. It's a full-day training, and you'll get paid your normal rate if you go during a regularly scheduled shift, or time and a half otherwise. HQ is sending us a calendar by the end of the week, and everyone is required to sign up for a session by the end of this month. Got it?"
"Got it," everyone said, in one way or another.
"Good," said Cap. "This is serious business, men. Over the weekend, a paramedic in Washington was shot and killed by a relative of a patient he was treating. Who knows whether this could have been prevented—but we can't take that kind of chance. More and more people own guns, and there's more and more drug-related violence as well. Any questions?"
Johnny raised his hand.
"This isn't school, Gage; just speak up."
"Oh. Okay. What I'm wondering is, will paramedics get extra training? I mean, I sometimes have felt uncomfortable at a scene, partly because there's just two of us, instead of four or six, and partly because there's no incident commander kind of keeping an eye on the big picture. And partly because we walk around with drugs, and people know it. We don't carry enough to really make for a big score, but people don't know that. Plus, we can get crammed into the back of a rig with someone who might go all nutso on us at any time. Sometimes we've already got cops with us, like that time that girl rolled over and came up with a knife and stabbed that cop, but sometimes not."
"Those are good points, John," Cap said. "I'll look into that. It might be worth your while to talk to Dr. Brackett about those concerns as well, in his capacity as medical director for the County EMS board."
"Okay. I'll talk to him next time we overlap. No," he said, "I'll get a meeting with him."
"Good. Anyone else?"
Nobody bit.
"All right. Carry on, fellas."
So they did.
The End (of this episode).
Series TBC