Chapter 8

The red numbers on the oxygen monitor flashed violently. 68%. 65%. The old man's organs were suffocating.

"It's not going in!" the younger EMT shouted, his hands shaking as he squeezed the plastic bag.

The senior EMT dropped the mask and grabbed his radio. "Dispatch, we need an ALS unit with a medical director on scene immediately! Patient is coding!"

"If you wait for ALS, his brain will be dead," Aimee snapped. She reached out and grabbed the senior EMT's wrist, her grip like a vise. "Get me a laryngoscope and a 7.0 endotracheal tube. Now."

The EMT froze. He looked at Aimee's plain scrubs. "No way, lady! I can't let you do that! Without a doctor here to sign off, I'll lose my license!"

"If he dies because you followed a piece of paper, that is on you!" Aimee roared, her eyes blazing with terrifying authority. "I am a licensed MD. I assume all legal liability. Give me the damn tube!"

Leo let out a heartbreaking whimper. "Please save my grandpa."

The sound broke the EMT's resolve. He cursed under his breath, ripped open the trauma bag, and handed Aimee the metal laryngoscope handle and a sealed plastic tube.

Aimee snatched the equipment. She snapped the curved metal blade into the handle. With a sharp click, the cold, bright light at the tip illuminated.

She dropped to her knees directly behind the old man's head. She adjusted her posture, aligning her eyes perfectly with the axis of his throat.

Holding the heavy metal scope in her left hand, she slid it into the right side of his mouth, sweeping his tongue to the left.

She gently lifted the blade upward, looking for the vocal cords. But the view was a nightmare. The tissue was a swollen, angry mass of pink flesh. The airway was completely invisible.

The younger EMT leaned over, his eyes wide. "You can't see the cords. You can't tube that."

Aimee blocked out his voice. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes for exactly one second. She visualized the anatomy in her mind, relying entirely on years of muscle memory.

She opened her eyes. She took the plastic tube in her right hand. Without hesitating, she fed the tube blindly into the swollen mass, feeling for the subtle resistance of the tracheal rings.

She felt a slight pop. She twisted her wrist a millimeter and pushed. The tube slid in.

She immediately yanked the metal blade out. "Attach the bag! Squeeze!" she ordered.

The EMT attached the bag and squeezed. Aimee grabbed her stethoscope and pressed it to the man's stomach. No gurgling. She moved it to his left lung, then his right.

Clear, symmetrical breath sounds filled her ears.

"I'm in," Aimee exhaled, a drop of sweat falling from her chin onto the grass. "Secure the tube."

As the pure oxygen flooded his lungs, the numbers on the monitor began to climb. 75%. 85%. 96%.

The horrific purple color faded from the old man's face, replaced by a pale, living hue.

The crowd of bystanders erupted into cheers and applause. Several people were recording her on their phones.

The senior EMT looked at Aimee with absolute awe. "What hospital are you an attending at, Doc?"

Aimee wiped her forehead with the back of her arm. She gave a tired, small smile. "I'm currently unemployed."

Fifty feet away, parked illegally by a fire hydrant, Brennan Wheeler sat in the driver's seat of his black sedan. He had rolled the window down to watch the commotion.

His jaw was practically touching his chest. He had just watched the quiet, submissive woman his boss kept in a penthouse perform a brutal, life-saving medical procedure on the concrete.

Brennan swallowed hard. He picked up his phone and hit speed dial.

"What?" Hamilton barked into the phone.

"Sir," Brennan said, his voice trembling. "Miss Simpson... she just shoved a pipe down a dying man's throat on the street and brought him back to life. The whole block is cheering for her."

There was a long pause on the other end. Then Hamilton spoke, his voice low and dangerous: "I want her followed. Everywhere. And find out who that old man is. If he has connections, I want to know before she does."