Free The Breakthrough by Jerry B. Jenkins

live right there? Where you goin’?”
    “Need to rest ’fore I go back up.”
    “I kin get you to that bench, Mama. You got any change on you?”
    “I ain’t payin’ you to walk me, Scooter.”
    “Come on now, I’m just sayin’ . . .”
    “Do I look like I got my purse with me?”
    “Just remember me next time you’re out.”
    “I’ll give you a couple when I see you. Now, you gonna help me or what?”
    “Calm yourself down and come on.”
    Scooter slipped a bony hand under Florence’s elbow and let her lean on him till he delivered her to the bench. “You gon’ be all right now?”
    “Mm-hm. Thank you, Scooter.”
    “You won’t forget me now . . .”
    “I’ll whip your tail you remind me again. I told you I would; now get on outta here.”
    “Kill a guy for helpin’,” he said, lurching away.
    Florence was relieved to be off her feet, but then she chastised herself for thinking it made any sense to still be in the sun. She should have just let Scooter get her to the building. But then he would have wanted five bucks. Now her pulse felt funny. Fast, then fluttery. Her breathing should have slowed from sitting, but because of what her heart was doing, she was huffing. Suddenly her priority became getting herself inside.
    Boone was desperate for any sign of hope. He didn’t want to distract the EMT, and Margaret was sitting there with her phone calls made and her head bowed. Boone took a modicum of comfort in that the sounds from the equipment were steady and regular. He’d been in enough traumatic situations to recognize when respiration or pulse were erratic. That was never good.
    Sarangan was probably right; Haeley was in a coma. She was going to need blood; that was sure. Boone started when the EMT tried to close her eyes. “Just don’t want them to get drier and more irritated,” the woman said. When she had trouble keeping the lids closed, she sprayed something into the eyes, and Boone was sure he saw Haeley flinch.
    “That’s good, isn’t it?”
    “Yes, sir, it is. She’s not conscious, but she’s not entirely comatose, either.”
    The driver slowed almost to a stop before swinging into the ER port at Mount Sinai. A dip in the pavement made the ambulance sway, and the young EMT braced herself and held both sides of the gurney. “Let go your wife’s hand, sir, and you and your friend stay put until we get her out.”
    Boone and Margaret gripped the edge of the bench to stay upright until the vehicle settled. Boone was warmed to see medical personnel huddled under the overhang. As soon as the ambulance stopped, they rushed the back and swung the doors open.
    Several men and women in scrubs grabbed the gurney and waited while the EMT released the fasteners and arranged for the equipment to go with Haeley. As soon as they rolled her out, a woman with a clipboard began scribbling as the EMT called out pulse, BP, pulse-ox, and tried to describe the trauma. Boone heard neutral words like Caucasian , female , and twenty-nine . Then severe , cranial , hemorrhaging , nonresponsive , and grave —not one of those hopeful.
    By the time Boone and Margaret exited the ambulance, the ER team was far ahead, running with the gurney through doors held open by their colleagues. “You go ahead, Boone,” Margaret said. “Stay with her. I’ll find you.”
    But as Boone ran to catch up, an ER nurse stopped him in the corridor. “She’s going straight to the OR, sir.”
    “I’m going with her.”
    “She has the best chance if the room remains sterile. You don’t want to get in the way of this, Mr. Drake.”
    Of course the nurse was right. But the last thing Boone wanted was to sit in some waiting room for the same news he’d heard too few years before—news that had obliterated life as he had known it. The nurse pointed to a room. “Your friends, your pastor, and your doctor are on their way. I’ll send them to you as soon as they get here.”
    Margaret reached him and put her hands on