Smoke & Mirrors by Skye Jordan

8

Logan

The kid is screaming in my ear. Right in my ear as I secure a splint on his left leg.

It’s way too fucking early for this.

Six a.m. and I haven’t had coffee yet, after a busy night. It might be October, but we’re still getting a steady stream of vacationers taking long weekends to pack in a little more fun before the season turns cold—in this case, a group of teenagers who came up from Portland to mountain bike along the forest trails after dark. While it’s been raining all night. In nearly freezing temperatures.

Every year I’m in this job, my belief in Darwin’s Law increases. “We’re getting you some pain meds, Justin. Hang in there.”

Bobby drops to one knee on the other side of the backboard, meds in hand. “They couldn’t have done this in better weather?”

“Teenage boys aren’t known for their brilliance.”

“Ain’t that the truth.”

“When you’re done there, can you get me the REEL or hold tension so I can get it?” I ask, referencing a splint that will stabilize the whole leg, and the one I prefer to use on femur fractures.

Bobby and I are equals, both paramedics with roughly the same amount of experience, but I’ve been with Hood River Fire and Rescue for eight years, he’s only been with us for going on two. While I’m better at backwoods medicine because of my time in the mountains and recreational areas, Bobby’s better with split-second triage and managing a dozen things at once. He also kicks ass in big buildings, but we don’t have many of those in Hood River.

Bobby finishes drawing up morphine, looks at me, then at the kid’s leg. There’s no obvious break, as in, his femur isn’t sticking out of his skin, but I’m pretty good at telling real pain from fake pain and judging the severity of an injury based on pain level.

“You think?” Bobby looks at the kid, then back at me. “Nah, man, he’s just freaked out.”

“Twenty bucks.”

“You’re on.”

“What are we betting on?” Cole comes up to us and bends to look at the kid’s leg.

“He thinks the kid broke his femur,” Bobby says as he pushes morphine.

Cole glances at the still-screaming kid, then at Bobby. “I’m not betting against Logan on this one.”

“Cap, hand me that REEL,” I say, referencing the metal-and-Velcro splint I prefer for femur breaks. One Bobby hates for no reason at all.

“Dude,” Bobby says. “Don’t use it just because you brought it.”

“Don’t not use it just to make yourself look right.”

With morphine flowing through his veins, Justin quiets and goes glassy-eyed.

“My eardrums, man,” I say. “They’re still ringing.”

“We sent the other kids ahead to meet us on the main road,” Cole says, then calls to Tucker and Carter.

We each take a corner of the backboard, while Carter hitches the equipment and supply bags across his back and over his shoulders and follows. “How did I become the pack mule? We should have drawn straws.”

“Sure,” Tucker says, cutting a grin at me. “Next time, kid.”

We use “kid” as a nickname for guys with less experience, not necessarily fewer years on the planet.

We slip and slide down the steep terrain and muddy ground, but manage to keep Justin stable until we reach the road where we put him on the gurney inside the rescue. Mud turns the white sheet brown and drips on the floor of the rig.

“Jesus,” I say, looking down at myself. “We’re going to need to clean up with fire hoses.”

“I happen to know where we can get a few,” Cole says. “We’ll stop and pick up coffee and donuts from Nat. See you back at the house.”

“Royal, can you get the pup?” I call to him.

“Got him.”

Royal rounds the front of the rescue with Bobby, and as soon as the doors open, I hear Bobby say, “What the… Jesus Christ.”

“What happened?” I call.

“Your dog got into my water. It’s all over the fucking place.”

“You won’t melt,” I tell him.

Royal comes around the back of the unit holding Lucky and grinning.

“Jesus,” I say to the dog, running my hand over his wet head. “What did you do? Swim in it?”

“Looks like he picked up the cup and shook it,” Royal says with a laugh. “The whole cabin is wet.”

I sigh and shake my head, and Royal heads to the engine.

With Bobby driving, I brace the gurney so Justin is jostled as little as possible, and when we reach a main road, out of the mountains, my phone pings with texts and voicemails.

My first thought is of Isabel and the motel. Once we’re on better terrain, I release the gurney and sit back. Justin is passed out from the morphine. I press my fingers to his wrist to make sure he hasn’t tanked due to something going on internally—like a fragmented bone slicing the femoral artery—and use my other hand to pull my phone from my pocket.

When I find the kid’s pulse steady and strong, I relax and look at my messages. They’re from Maya, not Isabel. And they were sent last night. They either came in while I was on a call and didn’t hear them or they came while I was passed out in the scant amount of time I had to sleep, or they were delayed getting to my phone, something that happens relatively often in the mountains with shoddy reception.

Last week, she told me she’d be in San Francisco for some kind of work thing and that she’d try to stop by to see me. I immediately think of the long-standing rift between Isabel and Maya, and I so don’t have the patience for that drama right now.

Her texts don’t say much other than “Hey, you around?” and “Was going to come by.” So I listen to her voicemails and learn she had a flat and was sitting on the side of the road, in the sleet, at night, alone.

“Fuck.” I drop my head back and close my eyes. The three people she would call for help are working—me, Tucker, and Cole.

Her last message says not to worry, she’ll call AAA. A little tension ebbs from my shoulders.

We arrive at the hospital before I have time to call her back. Bobby and I get Justin into the ER, and I head right back outside to start cleaning up on the rig. I check the cab, sure Bobby and Royal were exaggerating the water situation, but nope—everything is wet. Water soaked the seats and splashed everywhere.

“What in holy hell?” I pull out the thirty-two-ounce cup Bobby always fills with ice water. Not only is it empty, but there are teeth marks in the plastic. I find the top, which is chewed to shreds, the straw missing. “Good Lord, dog.”

I imagine the pup getting hold of the cup’s edge and shaking it like he does the stuffed toy I picked up for him, and I can’t help but laugh.

I dry things off, soaking up as much water as possible, then work on the back where mud covers the floor. Bobby is still inside, and I have no doubt one of the half dozen super-sexy nurses that work in the ER is on duty and he’s chatting her up.

While I wait, I sit on the rear step of the rescue and call Maya.

She answers, “Hey, you.”

She sounds sleepy, but it’s good to hear her voice. “Hey, sorry, I was on a call in the mountains. Shitty reception. You okay?”

“I figured. Yeah, fine.”

“Still need help? Did AAA come?”

“No and no.”

I smile at the image of Maya in all her designer glory changing a tire in this weather. “Don’t tell me you changed it. I’d pay dearly for that video.”

“Nope, Isabel did.”

A thick silence falls over the line. When I can’t make sense of it, I say, “What?”

“She was in your apartment when I left a message and came herself, because AAA was backed up a few hours.”

I shouldn’t be surprised—Isabel always has been the kind of person who would give the shirt off her back to someone in need. I guess it feels nice that’s still part of her personality.

They were as tight as tight could be back in high school, but the scholarship fiasco and the Derik fiasco ripped them apart. They never spoke again. Until last night, obviously. “How did that go?”

She sighs heavily. “I’m not completely sure.”

“Did you fight?”

“No.”

“Did you make up?”

“No.”

I close my eyes, my patience on edge. “Maya.”

“We bickered like we used to.” There’s a melancholy in her voice. “And we talked about the scholarship thing. She apologized, and it was sincere.”

“That all sounds good.”

“Yeah.”

“Then why do you sound, I don’t know, off?”

“Long-standing pain doesn’t just evaporate. Seeing her again, talking about all that bullshit just brought it all back. I decided to stay with Delia until Isabel goes back to New York. I’ve been working my ass off, and I don’t have the energy or the interest in patching things up.”

“I get it.” Silence falls over the line, and it feels tense on Maya’s side. “What?”

“I don’t know. There’s just something…off about her. I can’t put my finger on it.”

I’m guessing that has to do with all the turmoil Isabel’s been through lately.

“Anyway,” Maya says, “if you’re going to date her or whatever, just, I don’t know. Just be careful.”

“What does that mean?”

“This is going to sound stupid because I haven’t seen her in forever, but it feels like she’s hiding something, and I know how you feel about lies. “

I hate lies. And liars. But my mind returns to the day Isabel came into the firehouse and had my back. No one’s said one smartass or derogatory thing about the motel or the dog since. The guys have started looking at me differently too, like I’m smart, not the dumbass who bought a money pit. And it really feels good for a woman to have my back for a change.

That doesn’t change how I feel about lies. Isabel is definitely keeping things hidden, and for that reason, Maya’s advice is good advice.

“There’s nothing going on with us,” I tell Maya. “I’m just giving her a place to stay.”

Maya promises to call me later in the week, and I disconnect, wondering again about the money I gave Isabel, and whether or not she’ll be there when I get home.

Bobby comes around the back of the rescue, sullen. “You suck. Broken fucking femur.”

I punch the air above me with both fists. “Knew it.” Then I hold out my hand. “Twenty bucks, dude.”

“You’re a fuckin’ shark, just like Isabel.” Bobby pulls out his wallet and lays a twenty in my hand. I tuck it away, happy to have a supplement to my civil servant’s pay.

And maybe a start toward collecting the stupid money I gave Isabel.