Free Elixir by Ruth Vincent

said. His voice was surprisingly gentle for such a large man. “But it’s definitely serious. The doctors will be able to give a better prognosis. We are going to take her straight to the emergency room.”
    I looked at Eva—her body limp in the EMT’s hands. Was she going to wake up?
    I felt so powerless. I just wished I could help. But there was nothing I could do, nothing but stare and stand there uselessly as the EMT went to work on my best friend.
    They had immobilized her and were slowly raising her onto the gurney. Eva’s face was still blank, expressionless. Her body was as limp as a doll in their arms. Her normally robust frame seemed so small and frail. Something deep in my gut twisted—I wished we could go with her into the E.R.; I didn’t want her to have to go through this alone.
    I felt a hand on my shoulder. My head jerked up. It was Obadiah. He didn’t say anything—he didn’t have to. His hand on my shoulder seemed to be imbued with silent empathy. He just stood there, quiet and warm, behind me. Slowly I raised my hand and wrapped my fingers around his. I felt like crying.
    But then we heard a second siren. A cop car had pulled up behind the ambulance, across the street from the building. Obadiah and I looked at each other, neither one of us understanding. Two police officers in the navy blue uniform of the NYPD stepped out—a short, stocky man with a red face, and a tall, Hispanic man, both in their early thirties. The guns in their waist holsters bobbed up and down as they walked towards us.
    The short one extended his hand but didn’t smile.
    “Officer McCleary,” he said, giving my fingers a rough squeeze. “This is my colleague Officer Diaz.” The other man gave a grim nod.
    “Who called 911?” Officer McCleary asked. His voice was flat, emotionless.
    “I did,” Obadiah replied.
    Officer McCleary began to ask us questions. It was just the basic stuff, name, address, etc. . . . While we were talking, Officer Diaz made notes on a clipboard. The paper was pre-printed with the NYPD insignia—it was some kind of official form.
    “Who is she?” McCleary asked, pointing at Eva’s body on the gurney. The paramedics were loading her in to the back of the ambulance.
    “Eva Morales,” I spoke up. McCleary turned to me.
    “And who are you?” he asked.
    “I’m her roommate . . .” I paused. “I’m her friend.”
    “So, what happened here?”
    I looked at Obadiah—and I began to panic. What were we going to tell him? We couldn’t tell him the truth—that we’d seen Eva fly. He’d think we were nuts!
    “I . . . I don’t know,” I stammered. Maybe I could tell the cops some of what happened and just leave out the flying part?
    “I was here with Obadiah. We were on the roof. Then Eva texted me she was downstairs. I was supposed to meet up with her. She said the guy she was with had just gotten her a drink . . .”
    Come to think of it, where the hell was Ramsey? I hadn’t seen him. Did he know about Eva’s fall? Surely he’d heard it. A crowd of people had gathered around the doorway outside the club and were gawking and whispering at the scene. If he was still inside, I should find him and tell him. I might not like the guy, but he deserved to know what happened. Would he want to come with us when we visited the hospital?
    Or had he seen Eva fall and fled? Maybe he thought people would think he pushed her, and he’d gotten scared and ran? It was cowardly but it sort of made sense—people would think that, because who would believe him that Eva had been flying? No one knows how they will handle a crisis till the moment they’re faced with it. But maybe he was still inside at the bar, and he really didn’t know? I should go in and try to find him.
    “So what happened next?” McCleary asked, interrupting my thoughts.
    “I heard Eva scream,” I said miserably, “and then I saw her falling. We rushed down to try to help her, but she’d already hit the ground.”