by J. Bengtsson
“There has to be something we can do, Parker,” I said, swiping his name off the patch on his uniform. “My neighbor is in bad shape. And it’s not just his foot. I think he has internal injuries too. He won’t make it through a building inspection, much less through the night.”
Parker shook his head. “I’m sorry. I wish there was more I could do. It’s just not safe.”
“But…” I pointed up at the building, directing his attention to the firefighter who was currently rescuing a resident and her dog off a balcony. “But you’re rescuing them.”
“Yes, with the cherry picker, miss. Our rescue efforts have to remain outside of the building at this point. With your friend being under the rubble…”
The firefighter didn’t complete his sentence. There was no need to. I understood perfectly well what he was saying. RJ was on his own, and if he couldn’t figure out a way to break free of the hole he was in, he would very likely die in that pocket of life that was barely sustaining him.
I dropped my head, crestfallen. “How long?”
“Captain wasn’t sure, but he thought a couple of hours, maybe more, depending on what they find. I’m so sorry.”
It wasn’t his fault, I knew that. His remorse was real. This man-boy was used to being a hero. No doubt saving people was what he and his firefighter brothers and sisters lived for, but when it came right down to it, risking their lives to save others didn’t seem like the fairest split. He deserved to go home to his family tonight too.
But what about RJ? I’d made him a promise, thinking his survival was well within my control—but it wasn’t. Not at all. RJ’s fate belonged to factors no one could have foreseen, and now he was about to face the worst night of his life, utterly alone. Being a teacher with extensive first aid training, I understood that injured people were especially vulnerable to hypothermia. And with nighttime approaching, RJ’s body temperature could drop quickly. If that happened, his heart, nervous system, and other organs wouldn’t work normally, and it could lead to heart and respiratory system failure, or even death.
My heart pounded, anxiety thrashing through my veins. I knew what needed to be done. I couldn’t leave him there. My whole life I’d been searching. I’d thought before that finding my father would end the hunt, but now I understood it wasn’t him I’d been searching for. What I wanted was a connection—something bigger than me, something that brought down the roof. In that parking garage, digging RJ out of the angry earth, his arm going around me and gifting me his most profound gratitude—I’d felt it. That something bigger I’d always craved. God, he’d been in front of my face this whole time. How had I not seen it?
But my eyes were wide open now. Today, in the trenches, our connection had been forged in desperation and strengthened by devotion. We’d both sacrificed for the other. We’d put our lives on the line. We’d been adversaries before—near strangers—but now, we were more. I wasn’t sure how to explain it. I just knew. And for that reason, I would be there for him in his time of need, even if it meant dropping back into the hellish world in which he still resided. But this time, I’d come prepared with the lifesaving tools I would need to keep him, and me, alive through a hard, cold night.
I began taking inventory of supplies in my head. Blanket, water, flashlights, first aid supplies. But that wasn’t enough, not if the couple of hours Parker predicted stretched on. What if the structural engineers never deemed the building safe? Then what? We might need to take matters into our own hands.
Hammer and chisel.
Knife.
“Miss? Can you answer the question?”
I tilted my head up, realizing Parker had been conversing with me the whole time, and I hadn’t heard a word. “I… I didn’t hear what you said.”
“You all right? You look a bit pale.”
It was only then I realized how cold I was and how unsteady I felt on my feet.
“I’m fine,” I replied, waving off his concern.
“You know what? How about if we just start with a simple question?” he said, tapping the tip of his pencil to the small spiral notebook he’d extracted from one of his many pockets. “What’s your name?”
“Dani Malone.”
“Is Dani short for Danielle?”
“Does it matter?”
Parker blinked. This was supposed to be his easiest question, and I was making it more difficult than it needed to be… for good reason.
“Actually, it does matter. I’m going to need your full legal name.”
“Why?”
“This is a large-scale disaster. We need to know who has survived. Who is missing. Who has…”
Parker stopped himself before uttering that last word, the one that followed that place where all hope was lost.
Died.
But that wouldn’t be RJ. I wouldn’t let it be him.
“So full name, please.”
I sighed, really not wanting to disclose such personal information but having no real reason to conceal it except for the judgment that would surely follow from someone his age.
“Gladys Danielle Malone.”
The firefighter glanced at me, then blinked in rapid succession before mercifully dropping his stare and penning my name on his notepad.
“Gladys Danielle Malone,” he repeated it to himself, the slightest smile lifting the far corner of his lip.
“I was named after my mother,” I said, feeling the need to explain. “She’s an asshole.”
Parker’s brow lifted in amusement. “How about I just call you Dani?”
“And we’ve come full circle,” I replied, trying to remain my snappy self even in the face of a wave of dizziness that suddenly passed over me. I swayed in place.
“Whoa,” the fireman grabbed hold of me before I fell.
“Bruce!” he called out.
A heavyset man with close-cropped hair and a goatee rushed in to help. The two guided me toward an ambulance.
“I’m fine,” I insisted. “It’s nothing.”
“Except for the glass protruding from your arm,” Bruce said.
“This little thing? I have earrings bigger.”
“Humor us,” Parker replied.
“I don’t have time for humor. I have things to do,” I said, the list of items I needed to buy rotating through my head.
“I understand, but I still have a few more questions to ask you about your neighbor, and then you can go. But while we talk, Bruce here will patch you up, all right? That way we don’t waste any time.”
I rolled my eyes at his reverse psychology. I was a teacher. I employed that strategy every day of my life.
“I see what you’re doing, Parker.”
He displayed a ‘you got me’ shrug.
Sighing, I glanced between the two guys before agreeing to their idea of tender loving care. I suppose it wasn’t the worst idea ever. After all, it couldn’t hurt for Bruce to sop up some blood before my big rescue effort. Parker was pretty smart for his age.
Back in firefighter mode, Parker dove into questions about the conditions inside the garage and the approximate area where RJ was located. I answered everything the best I could, given I was describing an upside-down world. And as I talked, the goateed paramedic tortured me with his evil tweezers, using them to extract tiny pieces of glass from my skin before irrigating it with saline. Once the bandage was placed, he’d move on to the next, and the process would repeat. But even professionals had their limits, and for Bruce, his was met with the jagged piece of glass in my upper arm. He wasn’t touching that one. Instead, he handed me a bottle of electrolytes and took my blood pressure for what seemed like the hundredth time. But I had to give the guy credit; whatever he’d done had helped clear my head, and I felt stronger now, ready to face the challenge ahead.
“Last question. I promise,” my firefighter said. “I just need RJ’s last name. Oh, and do you know what his initials stand for?”
I searched my memory banks for any mention of RJ’s real name, but I was
pretty sure I’d never heard it spoken before. “Sorry, I don’t know what the initials stand for…”
I thought of RJ’s instructions. Tell them RJ Contreras is trapped in the parking garage. And yes, this did seem the right time to name-drop my celebrity crush.
“But his last name is Contreras.”
“Contreras?” Parker questioned, his eyes dancing with amusement as he scribbled it into his notepad. “That can’t be an easy name to go through life with—everyone thinking you’re the boy band singer.”
“Unless you are the boy band singer.”
“Right.” He chuckled, still not getting the hint.
“Actually, my neighbor—the guy awaiting your rescue—is the RJ Contreras.”
Parker looked up from his notepad, his disbelieving eyes scanning me for insanity.
“So, let me see if I have this straight. You’re saying that RJ Contreras from AnyDayNow lives here?”
“Yes. I mean, he did until the earthquake.”
My firefighter buddy met the eye of the paramedic who, in turn, shook his head and grinned like he just assumed I’d been sideswiped by a block of concrete to the head and the blow had rendered me a delusional groupie girl. His colleague’s reaction seemed to convince Parker that I was kidding.
“Dani, come on. You can’t really believe a multi-millionaire pop star lives here?”
“I know it sounds crazy, but I’m not lying. It’s him. He knew all their songs.”
“I know all their songs.”
That was a good point. I was going to have to dig deeper to convince him.
“Why would I make up a story like this?”
“I don’t know. Maybe you had a picture of him on your wall and were staring at it just before the building came down.”
Oh, well, that did make more sense than my story except… “I was in the garage, so no wall and no poster. Try again.”
“Okay, maybe you had an AnyDayNow air freshener hanging on your rearview mirror. I’m just being realistic. RJ Contreras does not live in this building.”
“But what if he does? What if it really is RJ, and the truth is just a rescue away? Think about it, Parker. You have a chance to save a legend. And imagine how grateful RJ would be. Maybe even enough to gift his favorite firefighter with VIP backstage passes for life.”
“Are you bribing me?”
“Only if it’s working.”
“It’s not.”
I sighed, long and loud. “Parker, you frustrate me. I’m trying to focus your attention on the bonuses of celebrity rescue and you’re just poo-pooing it away.”
“Poo-pooing?” he questioned with a lift of his brow.
“I’m a first-grade teacher.”
“Ah, that explains it.” Parker chuckled, shaking his head as he walked away. “I tell you what, Gladys. I’ll be sure to add ‘international pop sensation’ next to RJ’s name. Will that make you happy?”
“You’ll see, Peter Parker. You’ll see.”
I knew he thought I was crazy, and that was okay, because as more survivors called for help from the rubble, I wanted the only thing on Parker’s mind to be saving RJ Contreras and collecting his prize. And, no, I didn’t feel bad about name-dropping either, because while I didn’t think celebrities deserved special treatment, in this particular instance, RJ had earned his spot at the top of the triage list based on peril alone.
“Alright,” the paramedic said once his colleague had gone. “Blood pressure is better. And my patch up job should suffice until we get you to the hospital and a surgeon can safely remove the glass from your arm.”
My head shot up. “Hospital? No.”
“Hey, don’t worry. The surgeon should have you fixed up in no time. It looks like you got lucky. The glass appears to have missed the brachial artery which runs down the underside of the arm.”
Bruce didn’t get it at all. Of course I’d prefer a safe, sterile environment for the glass extraction, but there was no way I was going to sit in some hospital, waiting my turn, while RJ was underground with the threat of hypothermia looming on the horizon.
I sighed, glancing down at the windshield sticking out of my arm, realizing I was past the point of anesthetized surgery. If, as Bruce predicted, my injury was superficial, then the end result would be the same whether it was removed in a sterile environment by a trained, board-certified surgeon or removed right here on the back of the ambulance… by yours truly, Doctor Dani.
God, my mother would be so proud.
Dragging life-saving oxygen into my lungs, I grabbed hold of the glass and tugged. This right here—this was what separated the ladies from the heroes.
I blinked up at the paramedic from my spot on the curb—the place I had sunk to after pain stole the breath from me.
Bruce was not happy. He’d spent the time tending to my post-surgery care listing all the things that could have gone wrong—but hadn’t. I let him vent while he layered gauze and wrapped bandages around my arm. “If you’d severed the brachial artery, it would’ve resulted in unconsciousness in as little as fifteen seconds, and death in as little as ninety.”
“Well, then, we’re lucky it didn’t sever the brachial artery.”
“Do you think this is a joke?”
“No. But you don’t understand the predicament I’m in. If I had any other choice…”
“You did have a choice,” he squealed. “It’s called a hospital.”
“I know. I’m sorry, it was stupid,” I replied, choosing to appease him to speed the lecture along.
Bruce stopped tending to my wound and looked me square in the eye. “What predicament are you in? What is that brain of yours planning?”
“Nothing,” I lied. “I couldn’t go to the hospital because… I’m afraid of needles.”
“Uh-huh. This wouldn’t have anything to do with saving ‘RJ Contreras’ would it?” He used air quotes to shame me.
“No.”
“Dani, there’s nothing you can do for him.”
Oh, yes, there was, but I knew better than to disclose my plan to Bruce. He would tell Parker, who would then escort me out of the danger zone.
So I lied again.
“No, but I can be here for him when the rescue personnel bring him out. I can be the first one he sees.”
Bruce considered my words carefully before finally accepting them.
“Okay, but you need to stay back, away from ground zero. Do you hear me?”
“I do. And thank you, Bruce. I feel better already.”
The cautious expression on his face told me he really wasn’t sure what to do with me, but he had more pressing issues to deal with than some silly girl with rock star fantasies.
“All right, fine. We’ll play it your way. I’m going to release you now, but listen to me carefully. This bandage is just a quick fix. Once your superstar is saved from the rubble, you need to go to the hospital and get your arm stitched up. Do you understand?”
“I do,” I said, getting to my feet and surprising myself with their steadiness. “And do you know why I understand this, Bruce? Because you’ve repeated it at least five times.”
“Only because you haven’t listened to even one of them.”
I smiled, stretching out my good hand to shake his. “It’s been fun doing business with you, and don’t listen to the others who whisper behind your back. You’re a decent paramedic.”
He chuckled. “You’re a spunky little thing, aren’t you?”
I glanced around, checking for spies before whispering, “It’s how I reel in the pop stars.”
Bruce shook his head, clearly amazed by my ability to keep the delusion going so effortlessly. “Okay, well, give him my best wishes.”
“I most certainly will.”
We parted ways then, with me headed straight for the safety across the street where neighbors and looky-loos alike were gathered. It wasn’t every day that an earthquake toppled a building in Los Angeles, and unluckily for those in my apartment building, we’d happ
ened to be at the epicenter of the tragedy. But I had no interest in being a spectator. What I needed now was to borrow a phone and get just one of my forty-plus siblings to answer.
And I knew just who to call first—Donny. Sigh. If there was anyone else in the vicinity, trust me, I would’ve tried that person first, but Donny only lived three short blocks away, so the call went to him first. I’d done the math. Even factoring in that he would need to stop playing his video game in the basement of his parents’ home, put on some pants, find his keys, and grab a snack, Donny would still be here faster than any other sibling.
“Hey!” A young woman in a trendy dress beckoned me over. Due to her impeccable wardrobe, I had to assume she’d arrived after the collapse—in order to profit off our misery. “Did you escape from that building?”
I wondered what her first clue had been—the fine particles of my apartment complex now attached to my eyelashes or the blood-soaked mess the self-surgery had made of my clothing?
“I’m Misty Swallows. You might have seen my videos? I’d really like to interview you.”
I was no longer listening, having narrowed in on her phone like a ravenous vulture. Besides, there was no need for introductions. I already knew who she was: influencer Misty Swallows. And I was no fan, but nevertheless, I was about to make her superficial dreams come true.
Heading straight for her, her makeshift cameraman lifted his phone.
“Uh-uh.” I shook my finger at him. “No filming.”
He glanced at Misty for instruction. She gestured for him to lower it before focusing her attention back on me and repeating, “Were you in the building?”
“Yes, but not just me. There’s someone else in there, and he needs your help.”
“My help?” she asked, looking down at her high-fashion Off-White brand dress. Clearly, there was only so far this influencer was willing to go to help her fellow man.
“Not that kind of help,” I said, letting her off the hook. “What would you say if I told you your next post is about to go viral?”
Her eyes widened, and I swear I saw a dollop of drool form on her painted lips. “I’d say you’re my new best friend.”