An Apple a Day

Firefighter/paramedic, John Gage, passed his partner in the doorway, on his way out of Station 51’s locker room. The exiting, uniformed fireman immediately reentered the room and followed his squinting, street-clothed associate over to his locker.

Roy DeSoto sneezed into his shirt’s un-tucked tails and then glanced up at Gage. “Wha-at?” he inquired, upon noting his friend’s foreboding frown.

“You look absolutely awful! And you sound just as miserable. You shouldn’t be working when you’re this sick!”

Roy blinked his red, watery eyes and then sneezed, twice more, into his un-tucked shirttails. “They can’t find anybody to replace me,” he defensively stated, in a hoarse, nasally sounding voice.

“You should a’ stayed home anyway,” his still scowling chum chastised. “You just ain’t gonna be satisfied, until you give me your cold.” That said, John turned back toward the door and quickly took his leave of both the locker room—and his highly contagious partner.

Following roll call, 51’s Captain, Hank Stanley had dispensed Fire Station duties and then disappeared into his air-conditioned office.

DeSoto, who had been assigned to ‘hold down the covers on his bunk until a call came in’, finally got sick of just staring up at the dorm’s ceiling and went off in search of his peeved partner.

“Cap? You seen Johnny around?” Roy asked, as he met up with his boss in the parking bay.

Hank smiled, as a look of dawning understanding slowly filled his senior paramedic’s slightly flushed face.

The Captain’s grin broadened. “Bulls-eye!” he bemusedly exclaimed and disappeared back into his office.

Johnny was sitting in front of the Station’s television, staring glumly up at its 19” screen.

Both firemen watched Wile E. Coyote fall down a ridiculously deep canyon and then land with a splat and a poof of dust face-first on the canyon’s floor.

Gage grimaced and exhaled a weary sigh. “Just once, I’d like to see that coyote get to wring that roadrunner’s scrawny little neck.”

“Already did,” his friend informed him, his eyes never leaving the TV’s screen. “I didn’t hear an alarm. Shouldn’t you be holding the covers down on your bunk?”

“You were already sick,” his unhappy partner promptly pointed out. “That’s why you were just layin’ there.”

The Station’s tones sounded just then and saved Roy from having to comment further.

Squad 51’s paramedics trotted out into the garage and piled into their rescue truck.

and reluctantly closed his passenger door. The frowning fireman then proceeded to slide, just as far as he possibly could, away from the vehicle’s coughing driver. “Don’t talk to me. I don’t want you to even breathe in my direction,” John informed the ‘sicky’. Then he turned his frowning face toward his open window and inhaled deeply.

Roy saw the lengths his germ-a-phobic friend was going to, to avoid close contact with him, and rolled his red, watering eyes.

“…Man down,” the dispatcher continued. “Possible O.D….1220 East Langley…Cross streets Farbach and Chilton…One-two-two-zero East Langley…Ambulance is responding…Time out: 09:27.”

Their Captain finished recording the call. “Squad 51. KMG-365,” he acknowledged, just prior to passing his paramedics their copy of the address.

Roy held the little slip of paper out to his navigator, who reluctantly accepted it.

DeSoto did, and Squad 51 went wailing off down the street with its warning lights flashing.

The pair piled out, pulled the Squad’s passenger side compartments open and grabbed their gear.

“The boy’s inside,” the Deputy informed them and began escorting them over to the single-storied home’s open front door. “His name’s Patrick Finley and he just turned sixteen. His mother says he swallowed some of these, about fifteen minutes ago,” he explained and held an empty prescription bottle up over his shoulder.

Roy and his partner exchanged relieved glances, as sirens suddenly sounded in the near distance. “Rampart,” he spoke into their Bio-phone’s handheld receiver, “this is Squad 51. Ambulance is just arriving. Transporting immediately. ETA fifteen minutes…Ah-ah-ah-choo-oo!”

“Affirmative, 51,” Joe Early acknowledged. “Keep us posted and…bless you.”

“Roger that, Rampart…Will update vitals en route,” the senior paramedic promised, between a cough and another sneeze. Roy set the phone aside and started closing equipment cases.

His wincing partner promptly ripped open an alcohol wipe and then used it to sanitize their Bio-phone’s mouthpiece. “Try to remember to cover your mouth, will yah,” he strongly urged. “On top of everything else, Patrick doesn’t need your cold.”

The ambulance carrying Roy and the sixteen-year-old boy arrived at Rampart’s Emergency Receiving.

DeSoto stepped down with their young victim’s half-drained IV bag in his upraised left hand.

“Treatment Three!” RN Dixie McCall told the emergency vehicle’s two attendants.

The guys in the white coats and slacks nodded and the boy’s gurney was guided into the building.

Gage backed their Squad into the parking slot beside the ambulance and jumped out.

“How’s he doin’?” the dark-haired paramedic inquired, as he caught back up with his partner, just inside the ER’s main entrance.

“He seems to be holdin’ his own,” Roy solemnly replied. “I sure am glad you were right behind us.”

“Five minutes into the ride, the kid went into full respiratory and cardiac arrest,” John explained to a confused looking Miss McCall.

Dixie snatched the IV from her sick fireman friend. “I hope you don’t feel as terrible as you look,” she sympathetically said and disappeared behind the door to Treatment Three.

John latched onto his pitiful sounding partner’s right arm and began pulling him off down the hall. “C’mon! Let’s take your temperature.”

The dark-haired paramedic towed his prisoner over to the ER’s Nurses’ Station. He kept his left hand locked onto his partner’s arm and used his right hand to search for a thermometer. He found one in a drawer and held it up.

“Wrong end,” Roy announced, upon noting that it was a rectal thermometer, and not an oral one.

John suppressed a grin. “Isn’t this kind s’posed to be more accurate?” he innocently inquired.

“What are you looking for?” Dixie wondered, as she came stepping up behind the pair.

“An oral thermometer,” John replied. “I’m pretty sure my partner, here, is running a fever.”

Dixie pulled an oral thermometer out of her smock’s right pocket. “Open up!” she ordered.

“How’s he doin’, Doc?” DeSoto mumbled around the medical instrument in his mouth.

Early glanced up from the kid’s medical chart and flashed the firemen a warm smile. “Thanks to the two of you, I think he’s going to make it.”

“But it was close,” Early solemnly continued. “Very, very close.” The ER physician eyed the two paramedics approvingly. “When every second counted, you two made damn sure they did.”

“No, John,” Joe Early quickly corrected. “I can’t take credit for this one. I have a feeling I was just a legal formality.”

“Time!” Dixie determined, following another quick glance at her wrist. The RN snatched the thermometer from Roy’s mouth and read it. “101.8…You should be home—in bed!”

“Fourth,” DeSoto glumly confessed, with a cough and a sniffle. “You told me that last shift. Joanne tried telling me that last night, and I’ve been telling myself the same thing—all morning.”

Dixie seemed somewhat confused again. “Then why aren’t you home—in bed?”

“They can’t find anybody to replace me,” the sick paramedic explained, sounding more than a little flustered—and pitiful. He sneezed again and then turned to Early. “Doc’, I don’t suppose you could give me something for this…”

Joe pulled a prescription pad from his right front coat pocket and scribbled something down. The ER doc’ passed the piece of paper on to the sniffling, sneezing paramedic and then quickly took his leave.

“Thanks, Doc!” DeSoto called after the fleeing physician. The feverish fireman glanced down at the piece of paper in his hand and sighed.

His partner snatched the prescription from him and read it—aloud. “Complete bed rest. Plenty of liquids and aspirin to reduce fever and alleviate aches and pains.” He folded the paper up and stashed it into his frowning friend’s front shirt pocket. “Well, partner, that makes it unanimous. C’mon. I’ll drive you back to the Station. Then you can get in your car…and go home…and go to bed.”

DeSoto’s frown deepened. He gave Dixie a half-hearted wave goodbye. Then he sneezed twice, sniffled once, and followed his smug, bossy, disappearing partner off down the crowded hospital corridor.

The paramedics were about halfway back to their fire station, when John suddenly spotted a fruit vendor. He pulled their rescue truck up behind the guy’s dilapidated old flatbed and parked.

His dozing partner’s eyes snapped open and he straightened up in his seat. “Why are we stopping?”

Gage grabbed their HT and threw his door open. “I’m going to get us some apples,” he explained and pointed to the makeshift fruit stand that had been set up on the side of the street.

DeSoto exhaled a resigned sigh and reluctantly settled back down in his seat—his hot, stuffy seat.

His partner approached the grey-haired, mustached gentleman who was seated behind the stand. “I’ll take two bags.”

“No hablo inglés,” the old fellow regrettably informed him. (I don’t speak English.)

The old guy’s eyes widened. “¿Solamente dos manzanas?” he incredulously inquired. (Only two apples?)

The guy grabbed an empty plastic sack. “¿Cuántas libras usted quiere?” (How many pounds do you want?)

“Puedo dejarle tenerlos para tres libras para cincuenta centavos.” (I can let you have them for three pounds for fifty cents.)

John’s bottom jaw dropped. “¿Tres libras para cincuenta centavos?” (Three pounds for fifty cents?)

“Bueno. Cuatro libras para cincuenta centavos. Pero ésa es mi mejor oferta.” (Okay. Four pounds for fifty cents. But that is my best offer.)

His customer seemed even more amazed. “¿Por qué tan barato?” (Why so cheap?)

The old man swiped the perspiration from his wrinkled brow. “¡Hace mucho calor! Las manzanas están estropeando.” (It’s too hot! The apples are spoiling.”

“¡Que lastima! Eso es barato. Si poseyera un colmado, los compraría todos.” (That’s too bad! That’s a bargain. If I owned a grocery store, I’d buy them all.) John hooked the HT to his belt. Then he dug his wallet out of his back pocket and thumbed through it, looking for a dollar bill. “Ocho libras, por favor.” (Eight pounds, please.)

“Le venderé todas las manzanas para un dólar por cada medida de áridos.” (I’ll sell you the whole truckload for a dollar a bushel.)

John couldn’t find anything smaller than a twenty. “Huh? Oh. Yeah. Si. Si.” Eight pounds of apples for just a dollar was a real deal. “Uh-uh…Estaré a la derecha detrás. ¿De acuerdo?” (I’ll be right back. Okay?)

Roy glared out his open window at him. “Don’t tell me. You’re waiting for them to ripen. Right?”

John completely ignored his sick friend’s sarcasm. “Could I borrow a buck? I don’t have anything smaller than a twenty, and I don’t want to take all his ones.”

Roy sighed and slid out his wallet. The feverish fireman found a dollar bill and passed it to his partner.

By the time Gage got back, the old guy had written up a ‘Bill of Sale’. “Firma aquí,” he requested and passed the paramedic a pen. (Sign here.)

John stared down at the pen in confusion. “¿Es esto realmente necesario?” (Is this really necessary?)

The paramedic was even more confused. ‘For eight pounds of apples? Oh well. Maybe the guy just likes to keep good books?’ John humored the old man and signed his ‘Bill of Sale’.

“¿Dónde te gustaría que se lo entreguemos?” (Where would you like me to deliver them?)

Gage gave the old guy a strange stare. ‘O-or, perhaps he’s just been standing out in the sun too long?’ “No es necesario que se lo entreguemos. Acabo los tomaré conmigo.” (You don’t have to deliver them. I’ll just take them with me.)

The guy glanced at the firetruck and grinned. “¿Cuántas manzanas puede usted llevar adentro eso?” (How many apples can you carry in that?)

Gage gave the guy an even stranger stare. “Estoy bastante seguro de que puede manejar ocho libras.” (I’m pretty sure it can handle eight pounds.)

The old guy’s grin broadened and he handed the fireman his two bags of apples, along with a copy of the ‘Bill of Sale’.

Gage tossed the vendor his dollar—er, DeSoto’s dollar. Then he turned around and started racing toward their parked truck.

The old guy got up from his lawn chair and went running after him. “¡Oye! ¡Señor! ¡Espera!” (Hey! Mister! Wait!) He watched the firetruck drive off, with its lights flashing and its siren blaring. As it passed by, he took note of the big gold numbers emblazoned on its passenger door. ‘51’. “¡Qué extraño!” (How strange!) the old man muttered, to no one in particular.

“I can see a pattern developing here,” Gage glumly announced, as the pair rode along. “We’ve already rolled on two attempted suicide calls—and it ain’t even noon, yet.”

“Have you ever noticed how many people try to kill themselves, during a heat wave?”

Roy reached for the Kleenex box that was still resting on the seat between them. For the umpteenth time, he pulled a tissue out and used it to wipe his rubbed raw—and constantly running—nose. “Can’t say as I have,” he croaked.

John shot his sick partner a concerned glance. “Man! Is that the only way they can think of to escape the heat?”

“I doubt it’s the ‘heat’ they’re trying to escape from. In fact, if you were to ask that girl why she just jumped out of that moving car, I bet ‘heat’ wouldn’t even be on the list.”

“Then why do suicide rates seem to rise and fall with the mercury? I’m tellin’ yah, ‘heat’ must have something to do with it.”

They reached Station 51 and Gage began backing the Squad into its spot in the parking bay.

Chet Kelly strolled clear up to the driver’s door. “Well, well, well…If it isn’t our very own ‘Johnny Appleseed’…in the flesh.”

Gage glanced glumly in his partner’s direction. “I think I liked it better when he called me ‘John-boy’.”

“I want my two-hundred-and-fifty bucks,” Kelly announced, when the Squad’s driver’s head finally swung back in his direction.

“Just be grateful we’re not charging you labor,” Kelly continued. “Believe me, it’s no fun carting apples around in this heat.”

John’s look of confusion suddenly quadrupled. “Carting apples? What apples?”

Stoker nudged Kelly in the back. “I told you he didn’t buy those apples.”

Chet suddenly looked somewhat panic-stricken. “Did you—or did you not—buy some apples from a little old Mexican guy this morning?”

Both paramedics seemed astonished by Kelly’s question. How on earth could Chet possibly know anything about that?

“Yea-eah.” John reached down and picked the two plastic bags up from the seat beside him. “They’re right here.” He hefted his apples up for a few seconds and frowned. "Only, I don’t think they’re all here.” The sacks’ contents felt a lot lighter than eight pounds.

“You’re right,” Hank Stanley agreed. “They’re not all there. He brought the rest of them over, while you two were out on that last run.”

John’s bottom jaw dropped for the second time that shift. The paramedic pulled his copy of the ‘Bill of Sale’ out of his front shirt pocket and stared down at it in both shock and horror. “Marco, what does ‘medida de áridos’ mean?” he numbly inquired.

Between their parked cars and the lot’s east brick wall, there were several rows of wooden crates, stacked five high, filled with apples—two-hundred-and-fifty bushels of apples.

Gage emitted a pitiful moan and quickly closed his eyes. “Why me? Why do things like this always seem to happen to me?” When he opened his eyes, the apples were still there. He groaned, again, and turned to Kelly. “You actually paid for these apples?”

Chet nodded. “I recognized your signature on the ‘Bill of Sale’, and he explained how you had to leave on a call, before you could pay him. It seemed perfectly legit.”

“Didn’t you think it was a little strange? I mean, what would I possibly want with two-hundred-and-fifty bushels of apples?”

“Yeah,” Kelly confessed. “I thought it was a little strange, all right. But it didn’t seem like such an abnormal thing for you to do. I mean, a buck a bushel. I don’t claim to know anything about apples, but that’s gotta be a great price. Right?”

Hank Stanley had to struggle, desperately, to keep a straight face. “So…John…how did you happen to become the unwilling owner of two-hundred-and-fifty bushels of apples?”

Gage gazed glumly down at his ‘Bill of Sale’. “I was hungry. I saw this sign: Apples for Sale. So, I stopped. I was only gonna buy six pounds—three for me and three for Roy. But they were only fifty cents for four pounds, so I bought eight pounds, instead. While I was going through my wallet, looking for a dollar, the guy was talking. I wasn’t really paying too much attention. But I thought he was talking about the weather—about it being so dry.” He turned to Marco. “‘Árido’ does mean ‘dry’. Doesn’t it?”

John reluctantly continued his narrative. “And then he asked me if I thought I was getting a deal…and I said, ‘Yeah. It was a deal’. And when he wanted me to sign a ‘Bill of Sale’ for a buck’s worth of apples, I just assumed he must like to keep good books. And when he offered to deliver my eight pounds of apples, I just figured the old guy had been standing out in the sun too long.” He exhaled a gasp of complete exasperation and glared disbelievingly at his ‘helpful’ friend. “You actually paid for these apples?”

“Hey, babe, I thought I was doing you a favor,” Chet stated in his defense.

Gage gazed glumly at ‘his’ apples. “You did me a favor, all right. What am I gonna do with all these apples? They’re gonna spoil in this heat…”

The glum paramedic’s countenance momentarily brightened. “You paid for them. That makes them your apples.”

“Oh-oh no-o,” Chet protested. “You signed the ‘Bill of Sale’. That makes them your apples.”

John’s eyes narrowed into shrewd slits. “Well, if you expect to get your two-hundred-and-fifty bucks back, you’d better help me think of a ‘profitable’ way to get rid of OUR apples.”

The grin their Captain had been trying so hard to contain finally escaped. “THEY say: Two heads are better than one.”

In the rec’ room at L.A. County’s Fire Station 51, shortly after lunch…

Johnny was seated at the kitchen table, flipping through the Yellow Pages of an extremely thick phone book.

Chet sauntered into the room, stepped up to the Yellow Pages’ flipper and offered him an apple.

“I’ll take a bushel,” Mike announced. “Karen’s gonna wanna freeze some of these for pie filling.”

Gage flashed the engineer a grateful smile. “Thanks, Mike, but you don’t have to buy—”

“—I know I don’t have to,” Mike interrupted him. “I want to buy them. I like them. So I guess the question now is…are you just trying to ‘break even’ on this little business venture of yours?…Or, do you intend to ‘make a killing’?”

John’s smile broadened a bit and he beamed it in Chet’s direction. “Are we just trying to break even? Or, do we intend to make a killing?”

His business partner suddenly appeared pensive. “This makes us ‘middlemen’. Doesn’t it.”

“Man!” Kelly’s mustached face filled with disgust. “I’ve always hated middlemen. They make an unfair profit off of other people’s hard labor.”

His friends looked equally disgusted and nodded once again, in complete agreement.

Suddenly, Chet’s eyes narrowed into two shrewd slits and he aimed a greedy gaze in their first customer’s direction. “What—exactly—would you consider ‘a killing’?”

In lieu of Kelly’s previously stated stance on ‘middlemen’ and ‘unfair profits’, his crewmates found his question quite confusing, not to mention shocking.

Chet saw their facial expressions and managed an apologetic shrug. “Sorry. I must a’ been momentarily overpowered by greed.” He turned back to the engineer. “Since you’re a friend, I s’pose we can ‘break even’ on you.”

Mike gave the greedy bugger an ‘Oh, brother,’ glare. “That’s very ‘generous’ of you…friend.”

Kelly immediately went on the defensive. “Hey, these apples are delicious! They’re worth waaaaay more than a buck a bushel. I’ll bet they must be worth three or four times that.”

“Yeah,” Gage agreed. “And, a few more hours in this heat, and we’re gonna have delicious BAKED apples. And we won’t be able to give them away. In fact, we’ll probably end up having to pay somebody to come and haul them all off to the landfill. If we just ‘break even’ on this deal, we’ll be doin’ real good. Agreed, partner?”

Lopez pulled out his wallet, removed a five-dollar bill and passed it on to the ‘apple baron’.

“My mother, my Sister Angelina, my Sister Bonita, my Sister Louisa, my Sister Maria—” Marco paused and pulled another dollar out of his open billfold. “Almost forgot my Aunt Rosa. Do you deliver?”

“Oh, well. It’ll give me an excuse to visit them. Besides, fried apple crisp…apple cake smothered with Leche Quemada…apple enchiladas…apple burritos…cinnamon apple flautas covered in caramel sauce,” Marco smacked his lips in anticipation. “I’m sure I’ll be getting a very good return on my investment,” he predicted and patted his tummy.

“Mmm-mmm. Mighty tasty,” their Captain proclaimed, as he came walking into the rec’ room, crunching on an apple. “My wife’s gonna want some of these.” His gaze settled upon the seated paramedic. “John, do you think I could possibly convince you to part with a few of your apples?”

“Oh-oh,” Chet turned back to their boss and somehow managed to keep a perfectly straight face. “I think we could spare a few for Mrs. Stanley.”

Concern suddenly replaced the amusement in John’s eyes. “Did you send Roy home?”

Hank shook his head. “He wants to stick around, until his replacement arrives.”

“He claims he’s okay. Says he’s just sneezing and sniffling and feeling a little feverish. That doesn’t sound so bad.”

“You want it to sound bad? Then allow me to put that in diagnostic terms. The patient is experiencing frequent sternutations and severe rhinitis. He is also somewhat hyperpyrotic.”

But, before he could send DeSoto home and take the Squad out of service, the tones went off.

“Station 51…Truck 123…Battalion 14,” the dispatcher began, “Structure fire…1126 Berkley Avenue…Cross streets: 5^th and General…One-one-two-six Berkley Avenue…Ambulances responding…Time out: 12:20.”

“Station 51. KMG-365,” the Captain acknowledged and turned to pass his senior paramedic their copy of the call address. Stanley was somewhat surprised to see Gage seated behind the rescue truck’s steering wheel.

“He starts sneezing while he’s driving,” his junior paramedic explained, snatching on to the little slip of paper and passing it on to his sniffling partner, “we could end up in a wreck.”

Hank took his copy of the call and went trotting off across the parking bay, suppressing a smile all the while.

The Captain scrambled aboard Big Red, and then both the Squad and the Engine left the fire station, with their warning lights flashing and their sirens wailing.

While they were still several blocks from the fire scene, Chief McConike’s requests for additional alarms and ambulances came over their trucks’ dash-mounted radios.

The 14^th floor of a sixteen-story redbrick apartment building appeared to be fully involved. Columns of thick, black smoke were billowing out of a row of opened windows on the fire floor. Dozens of trapped people were dangling out of their apartments, in a desperate attempt to escape the flames—and find some breathable air.

Tenants were streaming steadily out of the burning building’s two main entrances and onto the sidewalk.

Equipment-laden teams of firefighters, wearing turnout gear and air tanks, passed the evacuees in the propped open doorways, en route to their assigned tasks.

Two police officers had taken it upon themselves to escort the exiting civilians away from the fire scene. Four more of their fellow cops had their hands full keeping the growing crowd of ‘gawkers’, and the various television news’ crews, at bay.

“L.A., Engine 51. Station 51 is on scene,” Stanley informed headquarters, just prior to exiting the engine.

Hank pocketed his handheld radio and went trotting over to where Gage had been ordered to park the Squad.

Anticipating that they would be entering the burning building at some point, his men began pulling on their self-contained breathing apparatus.

The Captain managed to reach Roy, just as he was about to don his air-pack. “Don’t bother. You will be staying put.”

DeSoto did not protest. He simply returned his SCBA to its side compartment and then sat down, rather heavily, on their rescue truck’s side running board.

Stanley gave the feverish fireman’s right shoulder a pat of sympathy and support and then headed over to Incident Command, to receive their station’s assignment.

Less than a minute later, the fully briefed fire officer came running back up to his crew. “Grab every lifebelt and piece of rope we’ve got and follow me!”

51’s crew met up with 16’s and 36’s on the sidewalk in front of the building. The three fire stations joined forces and then headed inside—single-file.

On the way to the building’s east stairwell, the firemen were informed of their joint mission.

Since the fire victims currently could not be reached from the inside, their stations had been assigned to try to rescue them from the outside—from the roof, to be more specific.

Stanley proceeded to explain the plan to his team. It was simple enough. Lifelines would be dropped, lifebelts would be buckled and the fire victims would be lowered—three floors down—to the caged platform of 123’s fully-extended snorkel.

The plan was simple, all right. But, before it could be carried out, the firemen would first have to carry themselves—plus their 40lb. air-packs, heavy coils of rope and other extraneous ‘high rescue’ gear—up sixteen flights of ridiculously steep stairs.

The Captain halted their upward progress on the eighth-floor’s landing, to give his completely winded guys—and their leaden legs—a bit of a breather.

John Gage secured his broad leather lifebelt to one of them, latched onto another and then disappeared over the side of the building.

There wasn’t a moment to lose.

As the paramedic was being lowered two-stories down, to the fire floor, the Captain explained—via his bullhorn—exactly how the rescue was going to take place.

In the off-chance that one or more of the trapped apartment dwellers hadn’t heard his ‘rescue message’, Stanley remained standing at the edge of the roof and repeated it—several more times.

The roped paramedic was swung across the face of the fire floor, moving quickly from one smoke-billowing open window to another, buckling trapped residents into lifebelts and then securing them to the dangling lifelines.

Once a fire victim was secured to a rope, he or she was promptly lowered another three-stories down, to the caged platform on top of 123’s fully extended snorkel.

When the caged basket became filled with rescued people, the snorkel’s 100’ long hydraulically-operated ladder was slowly retracted and carefully lowered back down to street level, where teams of paramedics were standing by to treat burns, as well as the many cases of smoke inhalation.

Yes, the exterior rescue operation was progressing smoothly—almost too smoothly.

Dozens of dangling people had already been buckled into lifebelts and lowered to safety.

‘Only four more to go,’ Gage silently realized as he was swung over to yet another smoke-billowing window.

The apartment’s coughing occupant saw the snorkel’s crowded platform pulling away from the burning building and panicked. Flames were now licking at his ass, and the dangling fireman’s rope was now within his reach. He could stay there and burn, or he could dive out the window. It was a ‘no brainer’…literally!

“The ladder’ll be back up in a just a couple a’ minutes,” the paramedic quickly and calmly reassured the panic-stricken guy. “Just let me put this belt on you, and then we’ll get the rest of you out of there,” he further assured the big, burly fellow, who was already hanging half-way out of his flame-filled apartment. John was just about to grab the dropped lifebelt and lifeline beside him, when the fire victim jumped. “No! Wait! Don’t—!”

The guys who were manning Gage’s lifeline were nearly jerked clean off of their feet.

“What the hell?!” Chet managed to shout out, as all four of them suddenly went flying forward—and almost right into—the air-conditioning unit they’d been using as their ‘base of operations’.

At the same time, the rope they’d been grasping so securely began slipping through their hands at a rather high rate of speed. The firemen could feel the heat that was being generated from the friction, right through their thick leather gloves.

The Captain knew his dangling crewman was in serious trouble the moment he heard Kelly yell, ‘What the hell?!’ Stanley glanced down just in time to see Gage—and another, much bigger guy—crash-land onto the wrought-iron balcony railing of an apartment two-stories below the fire floor.

Hank winced and thumbed his HT. “Engine 51 to HT 51. John?! Are you okay, pal?!”

Roy heard several women scream and glanced up in time to see his falling partner’s back connect—rather forcefully—with the balcony’s wrought iron railing. He picked up their drug box and Bio-phone and took off at a run.

The paramedic was almost halfway to Truck 123 when he regrettably recalled that his Captain had directed him to ‘stay put’.

123’s snorkel operator, Gary Dietrick, flashed the fallen paramedic’s deeply worried—and tremendously disappointed—partner a reassuring smile. “We’ll bring Gage to you!”

Roy gave the snorkel operator an appreciative nod and then watched, as the rig’s emptied platform cage slowly started to rise up from the street.

John Gage was in a world of hurt. Both his left wrist and the entire left side of his back were killing him! To make matters worse, the two-hundred-and-eighty-some pound guy was still on top of him, and still held a choke-hold around his neck.

“John?! Are you okay, pal?!” he heard his Captain ask, for the third time.

“Get…off…of…me,” Gage finally managed to get out between gasps, once he’d gotten his ability to breathe back.

Apparently, the fire victim was still too petrified to move, because he didn’t budge…not one single bit.

So John made a valiant attempt to remove the guy’s huge forearms from his strangled throat. “Gah-ahhh!” he exclaimed with a grimace, as his injured left wrist protested being used as a pry bar. The squooshed paramedic decided to use a different approach. “Look, man,” he breathlessly began, “yah gotta let me up…I can’t breathe…Go on…Put your feet down…We’re on a balcony…I promise, you’re not gonna fall.”

The fire victim stretched one of his locked legs out. Sure enough! There was something solid beneath them. He forced his terror-filled eyes open and looked down. There was a wrought iron balcony railing just below his right elbow. He released his stranglehold on the fireman and latched onto the iron railing with both hands.

Gage gasped in relief as the choke-hold on his throat was finally released and the crushing weight on his body was—at long last—lifted. Both of his feet were planted firmly on the floor of the balcony, so he gritted his teeth and then raised his bruised back up off of the wrought iron railing. He reached down with his good right hand, pulled his HT from his coat pocket and quickly raised the radio to his lips. “Cap, this is John…I’m okay.”

Captain Stanley stared rather relievedly—and disbelievingly—down at his radio. “Sure you are,” he mumbled solely—and insincerely—to himself, just prior to pressing his HT’s send button. “Engine 51 to HT 51. We’re gonna need your line. You can ride down with 123’s. And then, you are to get yourself completely checked out. Understood?”

Gage frowned down at the radio in his right hand. “Roger that, Cap. John out.”

Hell, if his wrist was fractured, which he strongly suspected it was, he would probably make it home sooner than his sick partner.

He slipped the HT back into his coat pocket and reluctantly began removing his lifebelt. He got it unbuckled—one-handed—and both his lifebelt and his lifeline were instantly hoisted up, and out of sight.

Oh well. On the bright side, if his left wrist was broken, and he did get relieved of duty, he’d be able to devote all of his time to his little ‘apple’ problem.

He glanced glumly down at his hurting left forearm. His left hand was shaking. If only he hadn’t reached out to try to break his fall…

“Need a lift?” Gary Dietrick inquired with a grin, as he swung his caged snorkel platform up beside the balcony, ten minutes—and four more rescued fire victims—later.

“We need a lowering,” Gage more accurately stated and somehow managed to muster up a smile of his own.

Gary’s grin broadened. “We can do that, too. We’re very versatile.” He raised the safety bar and Gage and the other guy climbed over the balcony’s wrought iron railing and onto the snorkel’s caged platform.

“Your partner’s waiting for you down there,” Gary informed his fellow fireman.

“You should feel honored, Gage,” the snorkel operator continued, the grin never leaving his face. “I won’t raise this thing beyond the Manufacturer’s suggested extension height for just anybody, you know.”

“Oh. Believe me. I do,” Gage assured him, smiling all the while as well. “Feel very honored, that is. Thanks, Dietrick.”

“You, too,” John told him. Then his smile vanished and he addressed the young woman he was currently assessing, “Were you burned anywhere else, besides the backs of your legs?”

“I…I don’t…think so,” the young woman shakily replied, between hacking coughs.

Less than two minutes later, the platform reached the pavement. The safety bar was re-raised and its coughing, limping occupants began to disembark.

John promptly reported his findings to the two paramedic teams that were there to meet and assist them.

“I want you to forget ‘paramedic’…and just think ‘patient’,” Roy sternly told him, between ‘sternutations’. Then he latched onto his partner’s right coat sleeve and started towing him over to where their truck was parked.

Roy sat his frowning friend down on its back bumper and relieved him of his helmet. “Okay. Start talking,” he ordered, between sniffles, and began unhooking—and carefully removing—his fall victim’s canvas turnout coat.

“My left posterior ribcage is bruised…and I think I might a’ fractured my left wrist,” his patient reluctantly replied.

“Because I have no strength in my left hand. And because, when I try to use it, it hurts like bloody hell.”

His sniffling partner suppressed a smile. Then he coughed a couple a’ times and dropped the removed coat. “I’m gonna need you to take off your shirt.”

His bruised buddy’s bottom jaw dropped open. “Wha-at? With all these…people—and TV cameras—around? Ro-oy, there’s no way I’m taking my shirt off.”

DeSoto didn’t argue with him. He simply reached down and removed their radio from his partner’s right coat pocket.

Then again, perhaps there was one way. “Wait! No need to bother the Cap’. Besides, he’s probably real busy, right now.” That said, John began to single-handedly unbutton his uniform shirt, grumbling beneath his breath, as he did so. He got the shirt unbuttoned, and his smug-looking, still sniffling partner got it—and his undershirt—the rest of the way off. “Look, but don’t touch,” the patient practically pleaded and obligingly turned his bare bruised back toward his buddy, so he could inspect it.

DeSoto didn’t have to look very hard. The balcony railing had left its imprint upon his partner’s back. The bruising was extensive, running practically the entire length of his patient’s left ribcage. The paramedic studied the nasty raised welt for a couple more seconds and then cringed. “That must a’ hurt,” he realized, right out loud.

“Okay. You can turn back around, now. I’m just gonna grab a quick set a vitals, here, and then call it in.”

“Can I put my shirts back on? I’m co-old,” Johnny explained, looking—and sounding—rather pitiful.

Roy rolled his red, watering eyes for the umpteenth time that shift and then helped his pitiful, pouting—co-old—patient ‘put his shirts back on’.

“Roger that, Rampart—ahhhh-choo!” Roy spoke—er, sneezed into their Bio-phone’s receiver, a few minutes later. “Transport patient as soon as an ambulance becomes available,” the paramedic repeated, between sniffles.

“Affirmative, 51,” Dr. Early came back. “And, bless you…again.”

“Thanks, Rampart. Squad 51 out.” Roy replaced their radio’s handset and then gave his fall victim a worried once over.

Johnny’s vitals were all perfectly normal—for him. His fractured left forearm had been splinted, and placed in a sling. Dr. Early hadn’t even been concerned enough to order an IV.

‘Still…’ The senior paramedic’s musings were interrupted by the arrival of their counterparts from Station 36.

“Roy, we’re really short-handed,” Craig Covington breathlessly announced as he and his partner came jogging up. “Could you do us a big favor and accompany a burn victim to the hospital?”

“The guy’s vitals are stable, but we had to start an IV…” Pat Waring went on to explain.

“Go on,” John urged. “I’ll be fine. Eventually, some form of transportation will be provided for the ‘walking wounded’. We can meet back up at the hospital. And, since the Squad will be ‘out of service’, the Cap’ll have Chet or Marco pick us up and take us back to our cars.”

Roy locked gazes with the guys from 36’s. “Keep an eye on him for me,” he solemnly requested.

Roy coughed a couple of times and then reluctantly climbed up into the back of the emergency vehicle.

John watched the burn victim’s ambulance drive away. Then he turned to face his caretakers. “I’m gonna go sit in the Squad.” The adrenaline rush of the rescue operation was wearing off, and he really needed to sit down for awhile.

Covington and Waring acknowledged his statement with more nods, and then went back to work.

John climbed in on the driver’s side of their rescue truck, leaving the door ajar. The paramedic winced in pain and then leaned forward, to keep his bruised ribcage from making contact with the back of the seat.

The fireman could feel himself growing drowsier and drowsier by the minute. His heavy head kept snapping forward. In a last ditch effort to avoid hitting the horn, John draped his right arm over the top of the steering wheel and then rested his whoozy forehead upon it.

That was how his Captain found him some forty-five minutes later—slumped over the Squad’s steering wheel. “John? John! Wake up! You need to move over. Marco’s gonna drive you to the hospital.”

Stanley’s stomach knotted, as John failed to respond. Hank reached into the truck and placed the tips of two fingers over the young firefighter’s corotid artery. The knot his tummy tightened.

The paramedic’s pulse was thready—and racing a mile a minute. His skin felt cold and clammy and his complexion was ghostly pale.

Hank swore beneath his breath and swung his helmeted head around. “I need a paramedic over here!”

The Captain turned back and saw that his shout had brought his completely ‘out of it’ crewman around.

John picked his hanging head up and slowly turned it in the direction the shouting had come from. His eyes fluttered open and he did his damnedest to get them to focus. Four—or more—Hank Stanleys were standing just outside the Squad. “Cap…I think…I must a’…hit that railing…a lot harder…than I…realized,” he dazedly declared. Then his eyes rolled back in their sockets and he slipped back into unconsciousness.

Chet had just collapsed into his assigned seat on Big Red, when he heard his Captain’s shout. He immediately directed his gaze toward the Squad and watched helplessly as Johnny suddenly slumped sideways in his seat.

His collapsing crewmate would have tumbled completely out of the truck, if their Captain hadn’t caught him under the arms.

“What’s goin’ on with John, Cap?” Kelly anxiously inquired, as he helped his boss lay the paramedic’s completely limp body out on the ground.

Roy was lying down in the Doctor’s Lounge, waiting for Dixie to bring him word of his partner’s arrival. He exhaled a weary sigh and gave his wristwatch another quick glance.

It had been almost an hour.

Johnny should have been there by now.

He decided it was time—er, past time to investigate his victim’s ‘delayed’ arrival.

________________________________________________________________________

DeSoto stepped out of the lounge and was surprised to see both of 36’s paramedics with coffee cups in hand, leaning against the supply counter. He surveyed the corridor.

His partner was nowhere to be seen.

Roy’s blue, bloodshot eyes narrowed into icy slits and he went stomping up to the Nurses’ Station.

“If you’re both here,” Roy annoyedly began, “who’s watching over my partner?”

DeSoto’s frown deepened and his anger upped another notch, “From a distance.”

Speaking of Roy’s partner…

Captain Hank Stanley stood over his unconscious crewman’s perfectly still form and struggled to recall the basic treatment procedures for victims of severe blood loss. The frustrated fire officer closed his eyes and stroked his forehead, in a further attempt to summon the buried medical knowledge to the surface.

Hank’s Initial Patient Survey had confirmed what he had already strongly suspected: Gage was going into hypovolemic shock.

In paramedic-speak, the victim’s blood pressure had dropped to such dangerously low levels, his vital organs were no longer being properly infused.

The Captain’s eyes flew open and he directed his deeply concerned gaze in Kelly’s direction.

“There isn’t a paramedic…anywhere,” Chet regrettably reported. “36’s Squad is still here…but a guy from 12’s…told me he saw…the both of them…take off in the backs of some ambulances…about a half-an-hour ago!”

‘Da-amn!’ Stanley silently swore. He removed his HT from his coat pocket and raised it to his lips. “L.A., Engine 51. We have a Code I. Respond a Squad and an ambulance to our location…”

“10-4, Engine 51,” headquarters acknowledged, “Squad and ambulance responding…Time out: 14:22.”

Hank turned to his men. “Mike, grab the M.A.S.T. kit and the O2! Chet, bring me a BP cuff and a stethoscope! Marco, get Rampart on the line!”

51’s Captain completed his Secondary Patient Survey and snatched the Bio-phone’s receiver from Lopez’s outstretched hand. “Rampart, this is County 51…”

“This is Rampart,” Dr. Early came back a few moments later. “Go ahead, 51…”

“Rampart, 51.” Stanley stared solemnly down at DeSoto’s open notepad. “There has been a significant change in victim one’s status. The patient—paramedic, John Gage—was found unconscious, by me, just a few minutes ago. BP is now 60/40. Pulse is thready and too rapid to count. Pupils are equal and reactive. Respirations are 24 and shallow. Both lungs are clear. Skin is cold and clammy and complexion is chalky. There are no visible signs of hemorrhaging. Request permission to apply anti-shock suit and administer 8 liters of oxygen…”

Several miles away, in Rampart General’s completely-enclosed Paramedic Call Station…

‘Da-amn!’ Joe Early silently swore. The doctor picked the paramedic’s chart up and quickly reviewed it.

Everything looked good—an hour ago. The fireman’s reported injuries had ‘appeared’ to be minor.

Early gasped again and depressed the nearest call mic’s ‘send’ button. “Go ahead, with the shock trousers and the O2, 51. And then recheck his vitals. Is there anybody around who could start an IV?”

“51. Negative, Rampart,” John’s Captain solemnly replied. “A squad is en route, but its ETA is unknown at this time…”

Early winced. “This is Rampart. 10-4, 51. Then I’ll be awaiting a vitals update…”

“County 51. Roger that, Rampart. Applying M.A.S.T. and O2. Vitals update to follow…”

By the time Hank got off the phone with Rampart, Chet and Mike already had the M.A.S.T. suit applied and inflated, and Marco already had a nasal canula in place and their patient’s oxygen flowing.

Knowing that their ‘victim’ would be requiring an IV, the Captain had removed the sling and placed the BP cuff on the paramedic’s upper left arm. He got the cuff re-inflated and then took another reading. Stanley tugged the tips of his stethoscope from his ears and smiled. “90/60,” he relievedly announced and then resumed his exam.

Three sets of hands promptly reached out and pinned their suddenly ‘antsy’ patient to the pavement.

Once again, John Gage found himself in a world of hurt. He wanted to lift his bruised back off of the hard surface it was situated on, but several strategically placed sets of hands refused to let him up. The pinned, pained paramedic moaned in misery and groaned in frustration.

“Don’t. Move. Mister!” his Captain sternly ordered and placed the palm of his right hand upon their patient’s white T-shirted chest. (John hadn’t bothered to re-button his uniform.)

Gage groaned again and then forced his tightly clamped eyelids open. He batted—er, blinked his pain-filled eyes in his boss’ direction—repeatedly. “Cap…the left side…of my back…hurts…like…bloody hell,” he breathlessly explained, sounding every bit as pitiful as he looked.

The Captain gave his hurting crewman a deeply sympathetic look and then locked gazes with his second-in-command. “Find something soft, that we can place under his back.”

Stanley gave Gage’s good arm a reassuring squeeze. Then he snatched up the Bio-phone’s handset and got back in touch with the hospital. “Rampart, this is County 51…”

“This is Rampart,” Dr. Early promptly replied. “Go ahead, 51…”

“51. Rampart, there has been another significant change in victim one’s status. The patient has just regained consciousness. BP is now 90/60. Pulse is 120 and much stronger. Respiration rate is now 28 and labored. Both lungs remain clear. Skin is still cold and clammy but his complexion isn’t quite as pale. The patient is coherent and complaining of extreme pain in the left side of his back. Still no sign of the squad or the ambulance—” Hank heard the faint wailing of a familiar siren. “Correction, Rampart. The squad is arriving now.”

Craig Bryce pulled Squad 16 right up alongside of 51’s squad and he and his partner piled out.

Bryce reviewed them and then grabbed the Bio-phone’s receiver. “Rampart, Squad 16 is on scene. Request permission to begin IVs…”

Joe heard Bryce’s request and promptly broke into a smile. “Squad 16, this is Rampart. You need to get the patient’s blood volume up with some rapid boluses. Start two IVs—normal saline. Use 18 gauge needles in the largest veins you can find. Raise the IV bags as high as you possibly can and keep the clamps wide open.”

“Squad 16,” Craig Bryce came back. “10-4, Rampart. Two IVs—normal saline. Large bore needles. Rapid infusion.”

“Rampart, Squad 16. Ambulance is on scene. Request permission to transport patient…”

“Squad 16. 10-4, Rampart. Transporting patient. Will update vitals en route. ETA ten minutes.”

“Rampart. Roger that 16.” Early exhaled an audible of sigh of relief and stepped out of the Call Station, for a breather.

Roy DeSoto was standing in front of the counter at the Nurses’ Station, talking with Dixie.

“Hey, Doc,” the paramedic cheerfully greeted the ER physician. “Any idea on when my partner is gonna get here?”

“He should be arriving in about ten minutes,” the doctor solemnly replied. “It seems that Johnny suffered some…complications.”

The feverish fireman’s face filled with alarm and he cursed beneath his breath. “I knew I should have never left him. I could sense that something just wasn’t right. What happened?” he finally demanded, his voice filled with an equal mixture of concern and confusion.

The paramedic was even more perplexed. “Johnny bled out? Wha—How? Was it a broken rib? Did he puncture a lung? Lacerate his liver? Wha-at?”

“I won’t know—for sure—until after I see his x-rays. But I’ll tell you what I think may have happened. I believe one of the bones in his left posterior ribcage splintered on impact and a piece of splintered bone severed the rib’s intercostal artery.”

The paramedic was now more confused than ever. “I—I don’t get it, Doc. I took three separate sets of vitals. Johnny’s condition was perfectly stable, when I left him.”

“I know.” The ER physician suddenly looked even more uncomfortable. “I blew it, Roy. I blew it…because I forgot one, very important thing. Your fire victim was also a fire fighter. At the time his vitals were taken, Johnny had just come off a rescue operation. His system was pumped chock full of adrenaline. The adrenaline was keeping his blood pressure ‘artificially’ elevated. As soon as the adrenaline wore off, his BP plummeted to its ‘actual’ level. Fortunately, the intercostal artery is so tiny, it took 45 minutes to an hour for him to suffer enough blood loss to actually begin to go into hypovolemic shock.”

An extremely distraught Roy DeSoto met John Gage’s gurney, as it was guided into Rampart General’s Emergency Receiving Ward. “How yah doin’?”

“I feel…almost as bad…as you look,” his friend weakly replied and flashed him a smile that was even fainter than his voice.

Roy returned the smile and continued to accompany his partner’s stretcher down the corridor.

Johnny gave his splinted left wrist a glum glance and his usual glib reply, ‘With both hands’ was immediately modified to, “With one…very good…hand.”

Roy found himself pacing up and down a deserted hallway in the hospital’s Surgical Ward.

Joe Early exited O.R. 2 and removed his sweat-soaked surgical cap and mask. “Just as I suspected,” he announced, as his surgical patient’s partner approached him, “a relatively small piece of his 5^th left posterior rib had splintered off when it struck that wrought iron railing. That little shard of bone then severed the intercostal artery. I was able to remove the bone fragment and repair the artery. His BP is now holding strong and steady.” He gave Roy’s right shoulder a reassuring squeeze and flashed him a reassuring smile. “Johnny’s going to be just fine.” Joe recognized the folded piece of paper that was protruding from the paramedic’s front shirt pocket. He pulled it out and re-handed the feverish fireman his prescription. “Now will you please go home—and go to bed?”

The exsanguinated fall victim had recovered enough to be transferred out of the ICU Ward.

The moment John Gage’s shiftmates heard that their fireman friend was now allowed visitors, they made plans to visit him.

A-Shift’s crew—minus two—showed up the afternoon of the surgical patient’s first day in his ‘regular’ hospital room.

“Chet! Am I glad to see you!” the room’s occupant exclaimed, the moment he caught sight of Kelly. “Whatever happened to our apples? I keep asking and asking, but nobody around here will tell me anything!…Oh. Hi,” Gage finally greeted his ‘other’ guests. The recovering fireman felt deeply indebted to his visitors. Hell, he owed them his life! “Thanks, guys…for everything,” he warmly added, and flashed his ‘big brothers’ a grateful grin.

The paramedic’s gaze quickly re-riveted upon Kelly. “Now, about our apples…”

Chet stepped right up beside his business partner’s hospital bed and then stood there, looking quite pleased with himself. “Hey…THEY say: ‘When life tosses you lemons—make lemonade’. Ri-ight?”

Chet looked even smugger. “Well, then it just stands to reason that, when life tosses you apples—you make apple cider.”

So Kelly continued. “Since you so cleverly devised a way to drum up some ‘free advertising’—”

“—Che-et, I fell two floors…got body slammed into a balcony railing—and damned near died!”

Never one to let the truth get in the way of a good story, Kelly quickly dismissed his friend’s factual interjection with a wave of his right hand and a, “Yeah. Right. Whatever…Anyways, when that TV camera crew interviewed us for a little background info on you, I just ‘happened’ to mention to them that you just ‘happened’ to have 235 bushels of delicious apples for sale.”

Gage’s gloom-filled face instantly lit up. “Chet, you’re a freakin’ genius!”

Kelly flashed his bed-ridden buddy back a ‘Tell me somethin’ I don’t already know,’ smirk.

“By the time we got back to the Station,” Mike Stoker joined in, “the phone was ringing off of the hook.”

Chet pulled a check out of his pocket and held it up in front of his friend’s face.

John stared at the amount it was written out for in absolute amazement. “I see you didn’t sell them for a dollar.”

“Oh, I sold them for a dollar, all right—a dollar a peck. Turns out, there are four pecks in a bushel. And remember, babe, two hundred and fifty bucks a’ that are mine.”

Gage flashed his entrepreneurial pal a warm, slightly askew smile. “I, uh, seem to recall making you a full partner, partner. Which means, we split this—50/50.”

Kelly gave his shoulders a dismissive shrug. “Works for me. Now, get well real soon…so you can cash it.”

John heaved a weary sigh, but the crooked smile never left his face. He beamed it at the rest of the guys. “He’s all heart.”

Mike and Marco took the hint and stepped out into the hallway—only to return, two seconds later, carting a crate of apples.

The Captain presented the recuperating paramedic with their ‘get well’ gift. “If an apple a day can keep the doctor away, we figured a whole bushel of ‘em oughtta be enough to get you clean out of the hospital.”

Their injured shiftmate was deeply touched—not to mention, amused to no end. “Thanks…again, guys.” The paramedic spotted the brown paper sack in his ex-business partner’s left hand. “What’s in the bag?”

“I brought you a little ‘something’ for your cast,” Kelly innocently announced and carefully placed his ‘get well’ present down upon the patient’s hospital-gowned chest.

A black Magic Marker’ed message had been scrawled upon the outside of the paper sack.

Gage read what it said—right out loud. “Contents: One Irish Itch Exterminator. Some disassembly required.” His curiosity piqued, the patient opened the paper bag—one-handedly—and then cautiously peered inside it. John caught sight of the sack’s contents and cracked up.

His fellow firefighters peeked into the opened sack as well. The sound of their laughter mingled with the patient’s and quickly filled the hospital room.

Miss McCall entered the room and stepped up beside Johnny’s hospital bed. “Hi guys,” she greeted Gage’s shiftmates with a grin of her own making. “What’s so funny?”

Dixie read the note on the outside and then took a cautious look inside. When she saw what the sack contained, she couldn’t keep from chuckling, either.

“I have some good news for our star patient, here,” the RN went on to announce, once she’d recovered some semblance of composure. “Your last labs came back. Things are looking pretty good. If your next hemoglobin checks out, Joe says you could be released as soon as tomorrow.”

“Well, what d’yah know!” Hank exclaimed. The Captain exchanged amazed glances—and grins—with the members of his crew. The fire officer’s mirth-filled eyes then lowered and locked onto the crate of apples that was resting at his feet. “It worked!”