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It's like something off a fucking TV show: Dean and Anna slamming open the ambulance doors, running inside with the gurney between them, Dinesh and Keisha and their crew behind them, with Tyrone and Bill pulling in right as Dinesh is calling, "On my count—"
They're inside, veering off into Trauma 1, Dean's giving the stats to Chris Nicholson; he can hear Keisha on the other side, giving the same rapid-fire recitation to Elspeth in Trauma 3. They get the gurney into the room, seal it off for the medical team—Anna pulls Dean back, there are Tyrone and Bill, going into Trauma 2—they stand back and let the EMTs fly by, Dr. Porter running along beside them until they're inside—
It's always a shock to Dean that his job is done, that someone else takes over here.
That it's not up to him anymore.
"I need a fucking drink after all that," Dean tells Anna.
Since they're still on shift, they settle for Cokes in the hospital cafeteria. Sprite, actually, because neither of them needs any caffeine in their bodies right now.
"That's one of the most dangerous intersections in the state," Anna tells him as they're eating fries and letting the jitters run off. "Highway 7 and Highway 61—work here long enough, you'll see crashes from there at least once a month."
"If people knew how to goddamn drive, it wouldn't happen."
"Can't disagree with you there," Anna says. The reason they're sitting here is because some asshat in an SUV overestimated his brakes and sent the Honda in front of him flying into oncoming traffic. Dean and Anna got the driver of the Honda; Keisha and Dinesh got the driver and passenger of the Escort the Honda hit; Bill and Tyrone got the mom and kid in the minivan that swerved to avoid hitting the Escort. There were some others, too, but they went to Roper and Memorial.
The driver of the SUV walked away from it, and if that's not cosmic injustice, Dean doesn't know what is.
The rest of the day, thank God, is slow. They get another car accident, but it's a false alarm. The girl spun out and into the guardrail, and the ambulance was called because the police showed up, but she's not hurt, just shaken up: She was lucky. They wind up at one of the College of Charleston dorms because some kid decided to warm up her scarf by putting in the microwave—smoke alarms went off, so the fire department showed, so EMS got called, too. But no one's hurt, and the fire was extinguished before the trucks even got there. The remaining hours of their shift are more or less like that.
Dean's getting his jacket and keys from his locker when Chris comes in, looking drained and unhappy. "He make it?" Dean asks tentatively.
Chris opens his locker and starts unloading all his doctor paraphernalia into it; then he just stops midway through and sits down on the bench. He nods. "The first guy—the guy you and Anna brought in—he did, though he'll need a lot of rehab. No brain damage, though. The driver of the second is critical but stable; I'm guessing there's going to be brain damage, but we won't know the extent of it until he's ready to be taken off sedation. The passenger died on the table: He sustained the direct impact, and I know Porter's going to beat herself up, but he never had much chance. The mom in the minivan wasn't wearing her fucking seat belt, and she's going to need her entire face reconstructed. She's fortunate that she didn't go through the windshield. The daughter had her seat belt on—I guess she had better sense than her mom. She had blood all over her, but it turns out she's just really prone to nosebleeds, and she bit through her lip at the impact. All she needed were some stitches and a washcloth. Thank Christ." Chris rubs his eyes, but he looks no less exhausted, and he still doesn't stand up. "And all this could have been avoided if some jerkoff with a small dick had just gotten the brakes fixed on his goddamn Ford Apocalypse. Or whatever the hell that thing was."
Chris Nicholson is known for his courtesy and tact. Heretofore, the worst thing Dean ever heard him say was an exasperated oh my God, and that only in the most trying of circumstances.
Chris still doesn't show any sign of getting up, and Dean ventures, "You OK, man?"
"I'm fine. Thanks. Just tired. And trying to decide whether I should bike home or risk the lecture from my sister if I call her for a ride."
"You seriously biked to work."
"Sure," Chris says, sounding surprised. "I almost always do. I only live about a mile and a half from here."
Dean shakes his head. Chris Nicholson does some crazy things—hospital legend has it that the only time he's missed work in the past five years was when he got arrested for civil disobedience at a protest against the war in Iraq—but biking when you can afford the kind of car a doctor can? That's past nuts.
Which is why Dean doesn't understand what his mouth is saying, or why, when he hears, "I'll give you a ride, and you can skip the lecture. The bike should fit in the trunk no problem."
"You shouldn't go out of your way—"
Dean's pretty sure he isn't possessed, but for some reason he seems to be continuing. "It's not far, and traffic should be light. Come on. Shape you're in, you'll probably get in an accident if you try to bike it, and then who'll you be swearing at?"
Chris actually cracks a smile, and he finishes putting everything in his locker. Then something seems to occur to him, and he turns back around. "What kind of car do you have, that my bike will fit in the trunk?"
"My baby's an Impala. Sixty-seven."
Dean can't understand why Chris is suddenly overcome with laughter.