Free In Case of Emergency by Courtney Moreno

say, “I’m glad you’re here and not there, Ayla.”
    She laughs, looks out the window, laughs again, and shakes her head. “Me too.”

12
    When I pull into the lot I notice both of the rigs are gone, which means yesterday’s 24-hour crews are out running late calls instead of sleeping. Technically the oncoming crews don’t relieve the outgoing crews until 0700, but I wanted to get here by 0630 to restock the rig supplies. I park myCorolla next to Ruth’s hatchback, because of course she is already present and accounted for. The stiff uniform collar is a cold edge against my neck as I grab my bag from the car.
    It feels like a first day again, and not just because of the four days off. I’ve been daydreaming since saying goodbye to Ayla yesterday. I can already tell we will have great sex, and I will struggle to understand her three years in the army, and part of me will continue to scream that I should run the other way. I can already tell she’s worth it.
    I go inside and say hi to Ruth, who looks up at me from above a bowl of oatmeal. Throwing my duffel bag onto the floor of the workout room, I button and tuck in my uniform shirt, finish lacing my boots. None of the other oncoming crew members have arrived.
    The wall of lockers. Two stories of metal rectangles; only Ruth’s is bare. J-Rock’s has a black-and-white picture of a mob of zombies, but most are plastered with firefighter logos. One locker, belonging to someone named Phil, is covered in muscles. Faceless, headless close-ups of taut and shiny biceps, bulging lats, a waterfall of abs, a medley of quads, calves, and even feet.
    Because Ruth wants to ensure I run as many calls as possible, I haven’t seen much of the two-car crew. I have yet to learn J-Rock’s real name or have a conversation with him. He’s a quiet guy, a little older than Carl and Pep but probably younger than Ruth, always hunched over either eating sunflower seeds or chewing tobacco, and a small plastic cup of soppy, dark material is a virtual extension of his uniform. The company-issued baseball cap J-Rock wears has the A & O logo on the front, but he must have paid extra to get his nickname stitched across the back. He wears the hat backward—the blue cursive stitching arcing between his thick eyebrows—and flips the bill forward when he climbs into the rig for a call.
    His partner is gorgeous and knows it. Pep’s dark skin is flawless, and he has dimples and thick eyelashes. Even though he’s much prettier than I am, he gave me a look when we first met that seemed to suggest if I everfound myself experiencing a lonely evening, I shouldn’t hesitate to ask for his company.
    If I clear training, there is a spot already waiting for me, on B shift with a guy named William Leone. I’ve been trying not to think about what Carl told me, that William is a cocky son of a bitch and no one likes working with him.
    First call of the day comes in at 0732, and delivers us a chest pain from the glass office buildings at 88 th and Vermont. As we wheel the man into the back of the ambulance, Ruth whispers to me that it doesn’t get any more “standard” than this. Our patient is fifty-nine years old, has a history of hypertension, and is experiencing an episode of sudden onset crushing chest pain that radiates to his left arm. His suit is rumpled, his tie loosened, and sweat has soaked from his undershirt to the tips of his white collar. He nods at us anxiously, hands fluttering along the side rails of the gurney, and he keeps lifting the oxygen mask off his face in order to talk to us, insisting he feels better after the nitroglycerin and aspirin. Ruth firmly reminds him to leave the mask on. I’ve taken his blood pressure three times, and it has finally lowered from a frenzied 212/108. I don’t know what that feels like, but it can’t be comfortable.
    Carl begins the ten-minute drive to Crossroads Hospital. In the back, Ruth and I are accompanied by the lead medic, who’s giving