Chapter Text
The evening shift had settled into the kind of quiet that firefighters never trusted.
It was just after nine, and the station had that strange, suspended feeling it sometimes acquired after dark. The last crew had gone home hours ago. The city outside had settled into night traffic, headlights sliding past the station windows in pale streaks.
Inside the lounge room, Keng sat at the table, one boot hooked around the leg of his chair. He had been trying to read the chapter of his book for the better part of twenty minutes, but the conversation in front of him made that hard to do.
"I'm telling you," Ton said, "there is absolutely no reason anyone should eat pineapple on pizza."
Chai rolled his eyes, "You've said that six times."
"Because none of you are listening."
"We're listening," Bank said. "We're choosing to ignore you."
Keng smiled faintly without looking up. He managed to get four lines read before the station tones dropped. The effect was immediate. The ordinary looseness of the room disappeared as if someone had flipped a switch. Keng was already pushing his chair back.
The dispatcher's voice came over the speakers. "Engine Twenty-Six, Rescue Twenty-Two, Medic Fourteen. Respond to a reported motor vehicle collision. Two vehicles involved. Possible entrapment. Multiple injuries reported. Location-"
The crew moved with practiced efficiency of people who had done this together hundreds of times. Chairs scraped. Boots struck the floor. Gear was grabbed from hooks. Radios crackled.
"Any update?" Keng called out.
"Dispatch says one vehicle is a pickup; one is a malibu. Caller reports that the malibu driver isn't moving." Ton answered. Keng's expression tightened.
The bay doors rolled upward. Cold night air rushed into the station. The engine came alive with a deep mechanical growl. Seconds later, the apparatus pulled into the street, lights flashing red against storefront windows.
Keng sat in the cab, one gloved hand braced against his knee as the city moved past them. He had learned over the years that there was a particular moment between receiving a call and arriving at a scene when his mind became completely quiet. There was no room for fear, no room for imagination, only information.
Collision.
Two vehicles.
Possible entrapment.
One is unresponsive.
He repeated the details silently, organizing them into categories.
Scene safety.
Number of patients.
Mechanism of injury.
Airway.
Breathing.
Circulation.
Extrication.
Transport.
Everything had a place; everything had an order.
The engine turned sharply. Ahead, the night was suddenly full of flashing lights.
"Holy shit." Nine said in shock. Keng's stomach dropped.
The wreck was brutal. The malibu had been hit directly on the driver's side. The pickup sat several yards away, its front end crumpled and its hood twisted upward. The malibu had spun after impact and come to rest partly against a concrete barrier. Glass glittered across asphalt. Steam or smoke drifted from somewhere beneath the vehicles.
"Driver of the malibu is trapped!" An officer shouted as Keng jumped out of the rig.
"Where's the other driver?"
"Pickup driver is out, he's conscious."
Keng looked towards the pickup. A man stood beside it, swaying on his feet. Even from where he stood, Keng could see that something was wrong with him. Not injured wrong. Drunk wrong.
"Keep him there," he told the officer, "We'll assess him after we get the more critical taken care of."
His attention returned immediately to the crushed car. The driver's side had taken the entire force of the impact. The door was folded inward. The roof had buckled. The windshield was spiderwebbed with cracks.
Inside, beneath the harsh beam of flashlight, Keng could see the driver. Young man, maybe late twenties. His body was slumped against the seatbelt. There was blood everywhere. Across his forehead. Along his cheek. Soaking into the collar of his shirt. Running in a thin line from somewhere near his temple and disappearing beneath his jaw.
"Sir?"
No response.
"Sir, can you hear me?"
He leaned closer. The man's eyelids fluttered. For one second, nothing happened. Then his eyes opened. They were unfocused. Confused. Terrified. Keng lowered himself so that his face was within the man's field of vision.
"Hey. Stay with me."
The man's mouth moved, but no sound came out.
"My name is Keng. I'm a paramedic. Can you tell me your name?"
A breath, barely audible, "Namping."
Keng leaned closer, "Namping?" A weak nod.
"Okay, Namping. I'm going to take care of you." The young man's eyes drifted shut again. Keng immediately touched his shoulder.
"Hey. Eyes open."
They opened. His breathing quickened. Keng could see the panic begin to rise beneath the shock.
"I know you're scared," he said, keeping his voice low and steady. "You were in a car accident. You're trapped right now, but we're going to get you out. You need to stay as still as you can."
Namping swallowed.
"Hurts."
"I know, we're going to help."
Keng glanced towards his crew. "We need access from the passenger side. Let's get stabilization in place. I'll stay with him."
The crew moved. Tools came out. The sound of metal against metal began. Keng stayed where he was. He placed one hand against the side of Namping's head, stabilizing him as best he could without obstructing the crew. Keng checked his pulse.
Fast. Too fast.
He looked at the blood. "Pressure's dropping." He said. The word were calm, his mind was not. There was a lot of blood. More concerning was where it was coming from, and the way Namping's breathing sounded.
Keng new the mechanism of injury. A high-energy lateral impact could cause devastating internal injuries even when the obvious wounds were relatively small. The broken ribs were becoming increasingly apparent. There was a deformity to one arm. Brusing was already beginning to spread across Namping's torso beneath his torn shirt.
"I need you to tell me what all hurts, Namping." Keng said.
Nampings eyes squeezed shut. "Everything."
The cutting began. The rescue crew worked around them, removing what remained of the driver's door. Metal shrieked. The sound echoed through the wreckage.
Namping flinched violently.
"Easy," Keng said.
"I can't-"
"You can."
"I can't breathe."
"You can. Look at me."
Namping's eyes found his again.
"That's it."
Keng kept talking. Not because Namping necessarily needed the words. Because silence would leave too much room for panic.
"You're doing well. Stay with me."
Namping's fingers moved weakly. Keng noticed. He held out his gloved hand. Namping grabbed it, his grip surprisingly strong. Keng let him hold on.
"You're not alone."
Namping's eyes filled with tears. He looked ashamed of them. The roof came away. Cold air rushed over them.
"Okay," Keng said. "We're going to move you now."
Namping's eyes widened.
"No."
"I know."
"No, no, please-"
Keng tightened his grip.
"Look at me. I need you to trust me."
Namping did. After a moment, he nodded.
The extrication took several minutes. To Keng, it felt like an hour. Every movement had to be coordinated. Every shift of Namping's body produced another sharp cry. His fractured arm had to be protected. His neck and spine had to be treated as potentially injured until proven otherwise.
The moment they finally freed him from the wreckage, Keng and the crew transferred him carefully onto the waiting stretcher. The monitor began alarming. Keng looked over at Namping whose eyes were closed.
"Hey! Namping, open your eyes for me."
No response. Keng's pulse quickened. They pushed the stretcher toward the ambulance. Keng was in a zone. His entire world had narrowed to the man on the stretcher. Keng climbed into the ambulance. The doors slammed shut. The siren started.
Inside the ambulance, Namping remained unconscious as Keng and Chai worked.
Oxygen.
Monitoring.
IV access.
Pain management.
Keng kept checking his breathing while Chai checked his blood pressure and heart rate.
The hospital appeared ahead. Keng did what he had done countless times before. He prepared his patient for the next team. He gave handoff. He transferred responsibility. He watched the hospital staff wheel Namping away. The doors swung shut.
For a moment, Keng stood in the emergency department corridor, still wearing his blood-streaked gloves. The adrenaline was beginning to fade. His shoulders felt heavy. Chai and Nine approached him.
"You okay?" Chai asked.
Keng looked toward the doors where Namping had disappeared.
"Yeah."
He looked down at his gloves. He stripped them off carefully and disposed of them. Then he stood there another second. Thinking about brown eyes opening in the darkness. Thinking about a trembling hand in his. Thinking about the words he'd said. You're not alone.
Eventually, Keng turned away. The crew had another call waiting. The city was still moving. There were still people who needed them.
Keng followed his crew back toward the ambulance. He didn't know Namping's last name. He didn't know where he lived. He didn't know what he did for a living. He didn't know whether Namping would remember him in the morning. He only knew that he hoped, more than he could explain, that the young man would wake up.
And somewhere beneath the noise of the hospital, Namping was fighting to do exactly that.