He came to in an ambulance, an oxygen mask strapped to his face, the siren screaming.
He felt the gurney under him bang against the sides as they slalomed through traffic.
His wrist still hurt.
There was a medic hunched over him, a tiny Latina fireplug, shouting, but the words were strangely quiet, like his ears were stuffed with cotton batting.
“I need two units of whole blood! Shit! BP dropping! Stay with me, stay with me—”
March didn’t listen to any more. Why should he. It was Thanksgiving, and the turkey smelled so good, fresh from the oven, and the candied yams. How a Brit like his wife ever learned to cook Thanksgiving dinner like that he had no idea, but there you go, she was a talented lady. And Holly had blown out the candles on her cake, and what are you talking about, you smell gas?
And he was out, like a pilot light.