pull her to her feet.
“Wait,” I said. “What are you doing?”
“Taking her to the hospital,” said the older of the two. He had the air of someone who’s seen too many accidents to care much anymore.
“Put her on a stretcher. She can’t walk.”
“No stretcher. We carry her.”
“What do you mean no stretcher?” I looked in the ambulance and sure enough there was no stretcher in the back and, frankly, not much else. “Where is it?”
“It’s on the other side of the island. Car accident.”
“Are you saying you have one stretcher and you share?”
The EMT narrowed his eyes at me. “This is not America. You don’t get everything you want all the time.”
Graeme put his finger in the EMT’s face. “She doesn’t want a stretcher. She needs it.”
Spitball pushed Graeme’s arm down. “It doesn’t matter. Let’s get her to the hospital. ASAP.”
Graeme insisted on putting Lucia on the small pallet in the back of the ambulance. It was crazy. A patient lying on the floor.
“Mercy,” said Lucia, drool rolled down her chin and her words slurred. “I don’t feel good.”
“That’s not right,” I said, trying to get in the ambulance.
The EMT pushed me back. “It’s just a puncture.”
“Not with drooling. It’s something else. Let me in.”
Lucia slumped and her hand hit the floor. Graeme looked at me. “What is it?”
“I don’t know.” I tried to push past the EMT, but he knocked me aside.
“We have rules in this country,” he said.
“Oh, yeah,” I yelled. “You have rules, but no stretchers apparently.”
Graeme looked around the ambulance with increasing panic. “Is this okay?”
“They use clean needles,” I said.
His sides started to heave as he began to panic. “But what about the rest of it?”
“You don’t have a choice.”
“But—”
The EMT slammed the doors and the ambulance peeled out, spraying me with sand.
“Shit! Spitball, where’s the hospital?” I asked.
“Coxen Hole. I’ll take you.”
We ran through the alley between our resort and another, ending up next to a group of scooters.
“Are you kidding me?” I asked.
“Hey,” said Spitball. “I flew missions over hot zones. I don’t do slow.”
And he didn’t. I have no idea what he did to that scooter, but it went like a crouch rocket. We zipped through traffic, weaving around rusted-out vehicles and fruit stands. When we got to Coxen Hole I was glad I had a grizzled old guy named Spitball with me. That town made North St. Louis look like a retirement community. Grungy concrete buildings were packed together and the narrow twisted roads were filled with vehicles that appeared to be held together with baling wire. Some of the houses or shops were painted bright pastels, that only made them sadder with all the dirt and exhaust giving them a grayish tinge.
Spitball zipped around an ancient Toyota pickup with at least ten kids in the bed. They smiled and waved. I waved back and was struck by their faces, happy, full-cheeked, and bright-eyed. Would American children be so joyful in such circumstances? I doubted it. I wouldn’t have been. Actually, everyone on the street seemed equally cheerful. They moved about their day in colorful clothes, kicking up dust on the sidewalk and not noticing that the buildings they passed looked ready to topple over on them.
“There it is,” said Spitball as he braked hard.
I saw nothing that would pass for a hospital. Maybe it was on the other side of the prison ahead to our left. It had high concrete walls with razor wire on top. I knew prisons as well as hospitals. Dad visited some of the people he helped to convict, usually women, but sometimes men. Dad didn’t look like he had any soft spots, but they were there. He understood circumstances make you who you are and he insisted I understand it, too. Mom didn’t know, but Dad took me on
“Wait,” I said. “What are you doing?”
“Taking her to the hospital,” said the older of the two. He had the air of someone who’s seen too many accidents to care much anymore.
“Put her on a stretcher. She can’t walk.”
“No stretcher. We carry her.”
“What do you mean no stretcher?” I looked in the ambulance and sure enough there was no stretcher in the back and, frankly, not much else. “Where is it?”
“It’s on the other side of the island. Car accident.”
“Are you saying you have one stretcher and you share?”
The EMT narrowed his eyes at me. “This is not America. You don’t get everything you want all the time.”
Graeme put his finger in the EMT’s face. “She doesn’t want a stretcher. She needs it.”
Spitball pushed Graeme’s arm down. “It doesn’t matter. Let’s get her to the hospital. ASAP.”
Graeme insisted on putting Lucia on the small pallet in the back of the ambulance. It was crazy. A patient lying on the floor.
“Mercy,” said Lucia, drool rolled down her chin and her words slurred. “I don’t feel good.”
“That’s not right,” I said, trying to get in the ambulance.
The EMT pushed me back. “It’s just a puncture.”
“Not with drooling. It’s something else. Let me in.”
Lucia slumped and her hand hit the floor. Graeme looked at me. “What is it?”
“I don’t know.” I tried to push past the EMT, but he knocked me aside.
“We have rules in this country,” he said.
“Oh, yeah,” I yelled. “You have rules, but no stretchers apparently.”
Graeme looked around the ambulance with increasing panic. “Is this okay?”
“They use clean needles,” I said.
His sides started to heave as he began to panic. “But what about the rest of it?”
“You don’t have a choice.”
“But—”
The EMT slammed the doors and the ambulance peeled out, spraying me with sand.
“Shit! Spitball, where’s the hospital?” I asked.
“Coxen Hole. I’ll take you.”
We ran through the alley between our resort and another, ending up next to a group of scooters.
“Are you kidding me?” I asked.
“Hey,” said Spitball. “I flew missions over hot zones. I don’t do slow.”
And he didn’t. I have no idea what he did to that scooter, but it went like a crouch rocket. We zipped through traffic, weaving around rusted-out vehicles and fruit stands. When we got to Coxen Hole I was glad I had a grizzled old guy named Spitball with me. That town made North St. Louis look like a retirement community. Grungy concrete buildings were packed together and the narrow twisted roads were filled with vehicles that appeared to be held together with baling wire. Some of the houses or shops were painted bright pastels, that only made them sadder with all the dirt and exhaust giving them a grayish tinge.
Spitball zipped around an ancient Toyota pickup with at least ten kids in the bed. They smiled and waved. I waved back and was struck by their faces, happy, full-cheeked, and bright-eyed. Would American children be so joyful in such circumstances? I doubted it. I wouldn’t have been. Actually, everyone on the street seemed equally cheerful. They moved about their day in colorful clothes, kicking up dust on the sidewalk and not noticing that the buildings they passed looked ready to topple over on them.
“There it is,” said Spitball as he braked hard.
I saw nothing that would pass for a hospital. Maybe it was on the other side of the prison ahead to our left. It had high concrete walls with razor wire on top. I knew prisons as well as hospitals. Dad visited some of the people he helped to convict, usually women, but sometimes men. Dad didn’t look like he had any soft spots, but they were there. He understood circumstances make you who you are and he insisted I understand it, too. Mom didn’t know, but Dad took me on
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