WAAAAH, WAAAAH, WOOP, goes the siren, and then it’s in our actual driveway, and the back doors swing open. Two medics in blue scrubs come toward us. “Here!” I shout, waving my arms like a frantic windmill. “He’s over here!”
“Talk to us.” One of the medics squats down by Cal. He has big sideburns like Wolverine. His partner, an older lady with a crew cut and huge arms, is already checking Cal’s blood pressure and stuff.
I tell them everything. I feel like I’m standing next to my body, watching myself acting like a calm person. I tell them all the facts, finishing with his allergies to penicillin and aspirin. Oh yeah, he had his appendix out when he was ten.
The EMT lady clutches my shoulder and looks me in the eye. “You did good, kid,” she says. “You did all the right things. Not many people could keep their cool like that.”
I nod, but I barely hear her words, I’m so numb.
Once I’m in the ambulance, with Cal in the back on an orange plastic stretcher, they let me call Mom on their phone. But when I hear her voice, I lose it. I hand the phone back to Wolverine, and he explains the whole situation.
“I have to say,” he adds, before hanging up, “props to Stanley here. You’ve got a pretty brave kid.”
I’d say thanks, but I’m too busy throwing up in a bucket.