Chapter Forty-Two

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

COUNTDOWN TO ZERO HOUR 07 MINUTES

DANI’S COLD BODY lay motionless on the floor of the helicopter.

“Clear!”

The Coastguardsman drying her torso backed away. There was a soft buzzing windup, then a jolt, as an electric shock went through the paddles and into her chest. Dani’s body jerked involuntarily upward in response to the wave of electricity.

“Eighty-one point six,” a Coastguardsman working on Connor said, reporting the boy’s body temperature. Moderate hypothermia. A temperature up slightly from a minute ago.

Everyone working on Dani glanced over, just as everyone working on Connor had at the clear . The chopper was cramped with three Coastguardsmen, Levon, two pilots, and the two unresponsive bodies laid across stretchers on the floor. Everyone worked in tightly choreographed tandem, passing equipment, calling out readings, thinking a step ahead to anticipate both the patients’ and medics’ needs.

“We got a heartbeat,” said a Coastguardsman working on Dani.

Levon dropped his head in relief while his arms shook with fatigue. She might have a chance.

Warming blankets were thrown over her body. Someone took her temperature.

“Seventy-six point two.”

Severe hypothermia. Zero improvement from a minute ago. If Dani didn’t get to a hospital soon, to an emergency trauma unit where they could warm her up, she would die.

“Eight minutes out,” the pilot flying yelled over his shoulder.

“What?” Levon yelled back over the loud noise of the helicopter’s blades. Dani didn’t have eight minutes. “How are we eight minutes from Minn General? It’s not that far.”

“We’re not going to General. We’re going to St. Paul Pediatric.”

“General is closer. They need to be seen now .”

“The boy needs specific pediatric equipment.”

“They’ll have it at Minn General.”

“We can’t confirm that.”

“But she doesn’t have eight minutes!”

Connor needed the specialized equipment and medical teams they would find at St. Paul Pediatric. For Dani, it was about time. For her, a single minute could mean the difference between life and death.

“Your rescues, your call,” said the pilot.

Levon looked from the boy to his best friend. From the innocent, traumatized, orphaned child with no one in the world to advocate on his behalf to the single mother raising a little girl to be just like her: kind, selfless, brave.

“Sir! I need an answer,” the pilot barked. “Where am I going?”

On the roof of the hospital, attendings stood by, ready, waiting, two empty gurneys by their side. As the chopper touched down, the doctors and nurses rushed forward.

The door slid open. The patients were transferred out. As they wheeled Dani and Connor in, Levon and a Coastguardsman ran alongside, shouting out vitals and relevant details.

Inside the hospital, people jumped out of the way as Connor and Dani were wheeled through the hallways. Doctors yelled instructions as equipment beeped and the harsh fluorescent tube lighting above them passed like dotted white lines painted on a road. While the doctors worked, Levon ran beside Dani, holding her hand like a vise grip.

“Brianna is waiting for you,” he said, his voice bumpy as they ran. “Marion is waiting for you. You got this, Dani. Stay here.”

“This is us,” the nurse beside him said as the group began to slow. “You can’t come in.”

“Don’t you dare leave us. Please, Dani,” Levon pleaded.

“Sir! Let go.”

Levon opened his hand and Dani’s dropped, splayed motionlessly over the side of the gurney as she was wheeled into a trauma bay. Suddenly, there was a hand on his chest and a nurse blocking his way.

“You can’t go in,” she said.

He tried to push past, but the nurse was firm.

“I’m sorry. No.”

The nurse went in, and through the open door he could see the chaos, could see the scramble, the desperation, as his friend fought for her life—and then it was gone. The doors shut and he was alone on the outside, not knowing what would happen next.

Levon stumbled back across the hall and slid down the wall to a sit. From the floor, he stared at the closed doors in a state of shock while the rest of the hospital hummed on in their never-ending work to save lives. He was wet, bloody, and covered in mud; a stark contrast to the sterility of a hospital. And there above him, at the place where he’d slid down the wall, was a streak of soot and mud across the brightly colored cartoons painted on the bright white hallways of St. Paul Pediatric Hospital.