Page 51 of Thin Lives

Instead, he was unfeeling.

Unconcerned.

Unapologetic.

And he just didn’t know why.

The very next second after the ambulance stopped, the paramedic leaned over with one hand and hit the latch on the back doors. Light, noise, and several new voices took over as the stretcher’s wheels were kicked out and Affonso was pushed out of the ambulance without a second of hesitation. People—doctors, likely—swarmed the stretcher, taking over and barking orders while listening to the paramedic’s report.

“Straight to the OR on the fourth,” one of the doctor’s barked. “Get blood on standby. He’s blue.”

Calisto didn’t even get the chance to blink or stand from the small, uncomfortable steel bench he was sitting on before Affonso’s bloody, prone body was gone from his view completely. All he saw was the automatic door close, and the small trail of blood that had been left in the wake of Affonso’s departure.

Wary, Calisto pushed up from the bench as the paramedic climbed back into the ambulance. He offered Calisto a small smile, and nodded his head toward the doors.

“You should catch up with them,” he said.

Calisto knew the man was right.

But he just … couldn't move.

Not fast enough, anyway.

The paramedic seemed to understand, and went about cleaning up the mess that the back of the ambulance had turned into over the chaotic drive to the hospital. Calisto eventually got out of the ambulance, but he didn’t go far. He leaned against the side of the vehicle, pulled out his pack of cigarettes, and lit one up with shaking, bloodstained fingers.

Taking a hard drag, Calisto closed his eyes.

He just needed to think.

He felt wrong all over.

“Damn, that is you,” came a voice from the side.

Calisto opened his eyes only to find another paramedic watching him from the back of the ambulance. It was the one with the familiar voice, but now that he could get a good look at the man’s face, he didn’t recognize him at all.

“Me?” Calisto asked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Been a shitty year for you, huh?”

Calisto blinked. “I don’t … understand?”

Why did that come out like a question?

Even he didn’t know.

Calisto was so sick and fucking tired of being unsure all the damn time.

“You’re having a rough year, man. I hope I don’t see you in my ambulance again,” the paramedic said.

“Again.”

That time, it wasn’t a question.

The paramedic shrugged, and took a spot next to Calisto. When he asked for a smoke, Calisto handed him one without a word. He held up a lighter and waited for the man to light up. Then, he replaced the lighter back in his pocket.

“You need a Xanax or something?” the paramedic asked. “The last time, I almost shoved one down your throat. You looked ready to kill me, but I got it and all, given your wife was beaten pretty bad and you were having the worst anxiety attack I’d ever seen.”

Calisto just stared at the man from the side, not knowing what to say. He didn’t have a clue what the man was talking about. He sure as hell didn’t have a wife, and he couldn’t remember being in the back of an ambulance recently.