“Next thing?” Rob asked, meaning What else can I do?

“Find some epi in that junk that flew around, or get it out of my bag. I had a good pulse for awhile there, but it’s gone thready again. Then fire this monkey up. With the injuries she’s sustained, it’s a miracle she’s alive at all.”

Rob found an ampoule of epinephrine under a tumbled box of bandages and handed it over. Then he slammed the back doors, dropped into the driver’s seat, and got cranking. First to the scene at an MCI meant first to the hospital. That would improve this lady’s slim chances just a little bit. Still, it was a fifteen-minute run even in light morning traffic, and he expected her to be dead by the time they got to Ralph M. Kiner Memorial Hospital. Given the extent of her injuries, that might be the best outcome.

But she wasn’t.

• • •

At three o’clock that afternoon, long after their shift was over but too wired to even think about going home, Rob and Jason sat in the ready-room of Firehouse 3, watching ESPN on mute. They had made eight runs in all, but the woman had been the worst.

“Martine Stover, that was her name,” Jason said at last. “She’s still in surgery. I called while you were in the can.”

“Any idea what her chances are?”

“No, but they didn’t just let her crater, and that means something. Pretty sure she was there looking for an executive secretary’s position. I went in her purse for ID—got a blood type from her driver’s license—and found a whole sheaf of references. Looks like she was good at her job. Last position was at the Bank of America. Got downsized.”

“And if she lives? What do you think? Just the legs?”

Jason stared at the TV, where basketball players were running fleetly up the court, and said nothing for a long while. Then: “If she lives, she’s gonna be a quad.”

“For sure?”

“Ninety-five percent.”

A beer ad came on. Young people dancing up a storm in a bar. Everyone having fun. For Martine Stover, the fun was over. Rob tried to imagine what she would be facing if she pulled through. Life in a motorized wheelchair that she moved by puffing into a tube. Being fed either pureed gluck or through IV tubes. Respirator-­assisted breathing. Shitting into a bag. Life in a medical twilight zone.

“Christopher Reeve didn’t do so bad,” Jason said, as if reading his thoughts. “Good attitude. Good role model. Kept his chin up. Even directed a movie, I think.”

“Sure he kept his chin up,” Rob said. “Thanks to a cervical collar that never came off. And he’s dead.”

“She was wearing her best clothes,” Jason said. “Good slacks, expensive sweater, nice coat. Trying to get back on her feet. And some bastard comes along and takes it all.”

“Did they get him yet?”

“Not the last I heard. When they do, I hope they string him up by the nutsack.”