Josh's Arc

Chapter 2 of 2

A week after the crash, Josh spread his gear across the kitchen table. One bag. One tourniquet. A defibrillator he had bought used. He wrote a list of what a real unit needed: airway kits, splints, oxygen, a second monitor. Then he wrote the prices beside each item. The total made his stomach drop. On a paramedic's pay, he could not touch half of it. Two trained neighbors and one bag would not catch the next call in time. He drove to the hospital because he had one idea left. Kelly Brackette had signed the crash victim's chart. Josh had never met him, but every medic knew his name. Kelly was the doctor who told families the worst news and somehow left them still standing. He was also the one who said no to the hospital when it counted, and paid for it. Josh found him near the loading dock, checking a delivery of supplies against a clipboard. Kelly did not look up right away. "You're the paramedic," Kelly said. "The one who beat the ambulance by forty minutes." "That was luck," Josh said. "I want it to stop being luck." He held out his list. "I need equipment for a volunteer unit. For the calls dispatch won't answer. I can't pay for it." Kelly took the list. He read it slowly. His face did not change, but he stopped writing. "You know what this is," Kelly said. "You want the hospital to hand supplies to a group that isn't licensed. That isn't even real yet." "Three people died waiting this year," Josh said. "That's real." Kelly set the clipboard down. For a moment he looked past Josh at nothing. "I've done this before," he said. "Pushed when I should've kept quiet. It costs." He stopped himself there, the way he stopped himself from a lot of things. "Then don't push far," Josh said. "Just point me somewhere." Kelly was quiet. Then he pulled a pen from his coat and wrote on the back of the list. "Expired stock," he said. "Gear we can't use on patients here. Splints, airways, a monitor with a bad battery. It's headed for disposal Friday. Legally I can't give it to you." He tore off the note and held it out. "But I can look away while it goes in a truck." Josh took the paper. His hands were steady now. "Why?" "Because I've read your call logs," Kelly said. "And nobody else will." He picked up the clipboard again. "Truck's here Thursday night. Don't make me regret it." Josh drove home with the note in his pocket. It was not a purchase. It was not clean. But by Thursday his unit would have real gear. He set the note on the kitchen table beside his short list of names. The equipment problem had cracked open. Now he needed hands to carry it, and a way to hear the calls before they reached a scanner too late.