The big hands and the calm voice are still here. “What’s your name?” He speaks strong and clear. Like I can trust him. I can tell him.
“Ru—by,” I manage. It’s weak. Garbled. Like Charlie’s last breath.
“Ruby?” He squeezes my hand. “We’re gonna take care of you, Ruby.”
All the people are here to help.
Charlie isn’t here.
My mom isn’t. I need her. Where is she?
We are going and going. People are talking and talking. They talk to me and I try to answer, but the world is so fuzzy. I just want to sleep. Everyone around me talks to one another. Saying numbers. Naming places.
There’s a rush. Moving. Pushing. Fast.
I squint my eyes open. There are so many people. There are tents. Like the drill at school. One tent is filled with people covered all the way up with white sheets. Even over their faces. I can’t see them. They don’t move.
I can’t move.
What if I’m like them? What if this is what it feels like to be dead?
I try to move so I’ll know I’m not the same. I’m too stiff. Stuck. But then I remember the neck brace. The straps around me. All of it holding me in. Too tight. No space. Like the rubble. I can’t breathe.
I’m still trapped.
I want to scream.
I want to bust through.
“It’s okay,” the man with the big hands and the calm voice says when I shake. My hand is still in his. “We’re taking you to the triage tents, where the doctors can help you. I’m gonna stay with you until we get there, okay, Ruby?”
I try to nod. The brace won’t let me.
We push past empty space. Black asphalt. Ambulance vans and bright red fire trucks. My gaze scrapes across the sides of them. Shiny. Slick.
We go into another tent. It’s not people covered in sheets here. There’s pain. Screams. Howls. I want to cover my ears but I can’t move my arms.
I want to move.
I want to talk.
I want to leave.
Someone shouts above me. A woman. “Respiration’s under thirty. Cap refill is not immediate. Cannot follow simple commands. Possible sepsis. Tagged immediate.”
They’re talking about me.
I’m immediate. I’m a label, not a person.
I want to know what’s happening
I want to know somebody and I want somebody to know me.
I close my eyes. Drifting.
The calm voice is in my ear one more time. An electric jolt. His big hand squeezes mine. “You’ve got this. Stay with us.” I try my hardest to squeeze back. I try with everything I have. I manage something just barely. “That’s my girl.”
The lip of a bottle hits my mouth. Water. I gulp. Sputter.
“Slow,” someone says.
I drink again. Slower.
A shout from outside the tent. “Multiples at Shore and Sunset. We need everyone.”
The big hand lets go of mine. Pushes back.
I try to say Don’t leave. It’s a whisper.
“I have to go,” he says. “This is the part where I let the doctors step in and I go help someone else. Another person like you.”
I want to cry because I don’t want to be alone again.
He swipes his hand across my forehead. “You need someone else now. My job was to get you here.”
And then I’m being lifted up again. One person and another one are doing it. What’s happening? Where am I now? They set me down on a cot so the big hands and the calm voice can take the stretcher. Someone scribbles on something, and I watch as they set it down on top of my chest.
A red tag.
I’m poked. Prodded. A clear mask goes over my nose and mouth. So much fresh, clean air. Not dusty like the rubble. Not singed and burnt like the sky. I can breathe. Something stings inside my arm. I feel it moving up and up through my veins.
The pain fades. I’m fuzzy. My thoughts fizzle.
I’m dandelion fluff.
I’m a floating balloon.
I can’t keep my eyes open. They’re so heavy. I can’t hang on. I’m breaking my promise to the big hands and the calm voice. And my mom. And Charlie.
But I’m too tired to stay.