John Gage gradually became aware of a strange humming sound...and the distinct odor of stale cigarette smoke. He snapped bolt upright in his bed and gazed rather dazedly around.

 

It took him a few moments to remember where he was.

 

The strange hum seemed to be coming from a radiator running along the wall and the stale cigarette smoke smell was emanating from the curtains, carpeting and upholstery of his hotel room.

 

‘It has to be past six,’ he realized, noticing how light it was out. ‘I wonder why they didn’t call?’ He flicked the little light beside his bed on and squinted down at his watch. "Ten to ten!" he shouted and swung out of bed. "We missed our plane!" The hotel’s upset guest grabbed the phone on his nightstand and dialed the desk. "Yes. This is room 222. Why wasn’t I called this morning?...What do you mean closed? Doesn’t your airport open on Mondays?...A blizzard?" He glanced towards the window. "But it was just raining last night..." his words trailed off, as he recalled what the baggage handler had told them: ‘If you don’t like the weather in the U.P., wait five minutes and it’ll change.’ "All right...I see...Yes. And thanks for letting me sleep in, then. I appreciate it...Yeah...Bye." He hung up and hurried over to the window.

 

He stood there, staring out at a fantasy world—a Winter Wonderland!

 

"Good grief!" he said aloud. "There must be a foot already and it’s still coming down!" The paramedic smiled and continued to just stand there, transfixed by the big, fluffy, white flakes that were sifting past his window. ‘Wait til Chet sees this!’ he mused.

 

He pulled himself away from the wondrous sight and poked his head through the portal between their abodes.

 

Kelly’s room was dark. His window’s shades were drawn and his phone was off the hook.

 

John stared at the still-snoozing figure and debated whether or not to wake him. Determining that it might be best to let his night-owl friend sleep, he pulled his head back into his room and quietly closed the door.

 

Forty-five minutes later, John stepped lightly down the stairs of the Ramada Inn and into the Settler’s Dining Room. He was showered and shaved—and starving!

 

The tourist took a seat by the windows, so he could watch the snow fall.

 

A pretty, young waitress stepped up his table and handed him a menu. "Good morning!"

 

Gage tore his gaze away from the windows. "Good morning! Isn’t that beautiful!" he exclaimed and motioned to the snowstorm—that was still raging.

 

The girl gave him a strange look. "You can’t be from around here, or you’d be sick a’ that Michigan dandruff by now."

 

"Michigan dandruff, huh? Well, it sure beats Southern California drought!"

 

The little lady was dumbstruck. "Why would anyone ever leave sunny California...and come to the U.P.?"

 

"Would you believe...just to see that?" the Californian inquired and pointed to the fluffy flying flakes.

 

The girl grinned and shook her head. "Would you like some coffee or breakfast while you watch?"

 

"Yes, please. Both." The paramedic was about to peruse the restaurant’s menu, when he heard a woman scream.

 

The paramedic turned in the scream’s direction in time to see an elderly gentleman slump down in his seat at a table in the room’s far corner.

 

The woman seated beside him jumped to her feet and screamed again. "Please? Somebody call an ambulance!"

 

Before she could even finish her sentence, the gentleman by the windows was at their table.

 

"What happened, mam?" John asked and carefully lowered the obviously unconscious man to the floor. He knelt beside the victim, opened the guy’s airway and checked for a corotid pulse.

 

"I...I don’t know. After shoveling the car out this morning, he was complaining about indigestion. He said that his chest felt...tight. Are you a doctor?"

 

"No, mam." He couldn’t find a pulse. "Look, I don’t have time to explain. But I’ve got to hit this man’s chest." With that, he struck the victim’s breastbone with his clenched right fist. (*)

 

The victim was no longer breathing.

 

So Gage gave him four quick, building breaths of air and then rechecked his corotid.

 

Still nothing!

 

"What are you doing?" the guy’s distraught wife wondered.

 

"Mam, I believe your husband has suffered a heart attack. I’m performing CPR...Cardio Pulmonary Resuscitation," the paramedic patiently explained. He located the tip of the victim’s breastbone...measured up two finger widths and placed the heel of his left hand down. He placed his right hand over his left and interlocked his fingers. "One..." he counted aloud and pressed firmly down, compressing the gentleman’s heart between his breastbone and spine—forcing blood out of the heart and through his body, "...and," he released, "...two," he compressed, "...and," he released.

 

Speaking of bones...

 

John’s bruised ribs were rebelling under the strain. He winced in pain but kept right on pressing and releasing—and counting.

 

The waitress came running up. "An ambulance is on the way!"

 

Gage gave her a grateful glance.

 

The hotel’s manager also came rushing into the room. "Is he...dead?"

 

‘Clinically? Yes. Biologically? No,’ the rescuer thought to himself. Even if he weren’t too busy at the moment to respond verbally, the paramedic would never have acknowledged such a ‘tactless’ question. "...fifteen. You have a pool. Do you have a resuscitator?" he asked, before giving the victim two more lungfuls of air, mouth-to-mouth.

 

"Yes. But Jeffrey couldn’t make it in to work today—on account of the storm. And nobody else around here knows how to use it."

 

"I do," his guest informed him, and kept right on performing CPR. "Get it! And send someone up to room 224 and tell Mr. Kelly to get down here!"

 

The manager turned to the waitress. "Call room 224—!"

 

"—You can’t! His phone’s off the hook! Please! Just somebody go get him!" the rapidly tiring rescuer with the really sore ribs repeated.

 

The girl nodded and left.

 

Five series of compressions and breaths later, Mr. Kelly came flying into the room. "Ga-age! What are you doing?"

 

The manager followed, towing the hotel’s resuscitator.

 

"Chet! Am I glad to see you! Take over compressions for me! So I can set up the O2!"

 

Kelly dropped to the floor and knelt there, frowning. ‘Ma-an, Doctor Brackett is never gonna believe this!’

 

"No-ow!" John shouted and jerked his hands out of the way.

 

Kelly took over compressions for him.

 

Before setting up the oxygen, Gage paused a moment—to regroup. The paramedic glanced up and saw tears streaming down the victim’s wife’s face. He took a few more precious moments to reassure her. "The ambulance should be here any minute now," he softly said and gave her wrung hands a few comforting pats.

 

She gazed down at the kind stranger, her eyes brimming with both tears and gratitude.

 

"Mrs....?"

 

"Valinski. Mrs. Stephen Valinski."

 

"Mrs. Valinski, is your husband allergic to any medication?...Is he on any medication?" he continued, when she shook her head. Another ‘No’. "Does he have a history of heart problems?"

 

"No. I told him we should just stay home this morning. But it’s our 40th wedding anniversary and he wanted to take me out to breakfast. The snow was too wet...too heavy. I wanted him to hire one of the neighbor boys to shovel out the car. But he wouldn’t hear of it."

 

Gage finished setting up the oxygen and shot the guy’s poor wife another sympathetic glance. He exhaled an impatient gasp and glanced at his watch. "How far is it to the hospital?"

 

"This blizzard has a lot of the streets blocked off," the manager said. "The plows haven't opened them all up, yet. The hospital is only a few blocks away. But they may have had to take a longer route..."

 

Suddenly, sirens could be heard in the distance.

 

The sound grew louder and louder and then stopped.

 

Gage turned to his waitress. "I'm gonna need a metal serving tray."

 

The girl nodded and headed for the kitchen.

 

Gage breathed an enormous sigh of relief, as two ambulance attendants entered the restaurant, wheeling another resuscitator and a stretcher. He stood and deftly switched their victim’s oxygen supply from the hotel’s to the hospital’s.

 

John placed the tray down on the stretcher.

 

Kelly had to pause compressions while they lifted the man onto the gurney.

 

"Okay, Chet. I’ll take over from here," John announced and gently nudged his assistant out of the way. "I’m riding in with him."

 

"No way, Johnny! You’re not supposed to be do—"

 

"—I’ll walk back. It’s only a few blocks."

 

"Bu-ut...you don’t even have your jacket!" Kelly gave up, as Gage disappeared—along with the attendants and their victim. ‘We just got here and...Ahh...Hell...I can’t even believe this!’

 

Several slippery, snow-covered streets later...

 

The ambulance pulled up to Marquette General North’s Emergency Receiving.

 

The vehicle's back doors popped open and John Gage hopped out.

 

The attendants wheeled Mr. Valinski inside and into one of the emergency treatment rooms.

 

"The victim’s name is Stephen Valinski," the paramedic informed the ER doc. "He’s been in cardiac arrest for the past 22 minutes. He’s not on any medication. No known allergies and no previous history of heart problems. I witnessed the arrest, administered a precardial thump and began CPR, immediately. As soon as a resuscitator became available, I placed him on 10 liters of O2."

 

"I don’t suppose you could stick around for awhile?" Stephen’s physician requested. "This stupid storm prevented over half of our staff from showing up. Which has left us extremely shorthanded."

 

The paramedic shoved a little step stool over to the table, stepped up onto it and promptly made both of his hands available—again.

 

A nurse swapped the metal tray for a short backboard, and John continued to perform chest compressions.

 

Electrocardiogram sensors were positioned.

 

One of the only two nurses available switched the patient’s oxygen over to constant flow and an ambu bag.

 

The other nurse started to hook up an IV.

 

Five minutes—a few doses of some potent drugs, and three defibrillations—later, John watched a familiar spiked pattern begin to dance across their victim’s cardiac monitor. "All right! We got a conversion! He’s in sinus rhythm!"

 

“Respirations are spontaneous!” the nurse who’d been squeezing the ambu bag further proclaimed.

 

The four ER team members exchanged triumphant grins.

 

"He would have been DOA, if it hadn’t been for you, doctor!" the young ER physician told his CPR administering assistant. Then he turned to the nurses and started issuing a whole slew of orders. "—and then get him up to CCU, stat!" he finished, at long last.

 

The nurses nodded.

 

The order issuer and his handy assistant left the room.

 

"I’m not a doctor, doctor...?"

 

"Hunter. Tim Hunter," the physician replied and stood there, looking somewhat perplexed.

 

"John Gage. Fireman Paramedic. Los Angeles County," his assistant said and extended a hand, once more.

 

Hunter took and shook the paramedic’s proffered palm. "Well, John...you sure had me fooled! You seem to be more familiar with emergency medical procedures than some doctors around here!"

 

"Thanks! I get an awful lot of practice."

 

"You know, you’re the first paramedic I’ve ever met. And, I must say, I’m very impressed!"

 

"Thank you for the compliment. Don’t you have any paramedics in Michigan?"

 

"We might. But I don’t know of any. What brings you to the Upper Peninsula?"

 

"Snow."

 

"That’s usually why people leave here to go to Southern California. Do you ski?"

 

"No-o...no. I see enough broken bones on other people. Enough to know that I don’t want to have any of my own!"

 

Hunter grinned. "Smart!"

 

They reached the waiting room by the ER’s main entrance.

 

"Mrs. Valinski, this is Doctor Hunter. Dr. Hunter is in charge of your husband’s care," John introduced, as their patient’s spouse approached them.

 

"Your husband is stable, for now...I've ordered some tests," Hunter informed her. "We’re moving him to the Coronary Care Unit, where we’ll be keeping a very close eye on him, for the next few days."

 

"Oh! Thank you, doctor!"

 

"Don’t thank me. Thank Mr. Gage, here. Your husband is very fortunate that John wasn’t staying at the Holiday Inn."

 

"Thank you, young man!" Mrs. Valinski sincerely said. She gave Mr. Gage a huge hug.

 

"You’re very welcome...?"

 

"Margaret. But you can call me Peggy."

 

"Well, Peggy, I hope you and your husband get to celebrate many, many more anniversaries—together. And you can just call me John."

 

"That is so sweet of you, John. If you aren’t a doctor, how did you know what to do for my husband?"

 

"You don’t have to be a doctor to administer Basic Life Support. Anybody can learn Basic Life Support. Even you could’ve done what we did. It just takes a few hours of proper instruction."

 

Dr. Hunter glanced at his watch. "Oh…my...I have to be in surgery in fifteen minutes. John, do you need a lift back to your hotel?"

 

"I’m gonna walk. They said it’s only a few blocks from here."

 

The doctor stared at him in disbelief. "You start walking around Marquette, Michigan in a blinding snowstorm—without a jacket—and they’ll be bringing you in here on a stretcher, next!"

 

Gage glanced down at his flimsy, cotton shirt and winced.

 

Hunter grinned again. "C’mon. I’ll loan you mine. You can leave it at the desk."

 

"Where have you been?" Kelly annoyedly inquired an hour later, as his soggy associate finally came stomping through the main entrance to the Ramada Inn. "How long does it take to walk a few blocks?"

 

Gage’s socks were soaked and his feet were frozen. His pant legs were damp up to the knees and his hair was also wringing wet. He’d been tossing snowballs at street signs and trees. So his hands were now hurting from the cold. The Californian didn’t care. He’d had a blast! He stomped some more Michigan dandruff from his shoes and then blew on his stiff, red fingers, in a futile attempt to warm them. He shivered and then smiled, as he suddenly realized he wasn’t just cold and hungry, he was also completely relaxed. The wayward walker grinned and pointed to the watermark on his jeans. "Look how deep it is! Man! It’s really coming down out there!"

 

"Don’t change the subject. What happened, Johnny boy?" Chet taunted. "Did you get lost?"

 

Gage’s grin broadened. "Hey! What can I say? The street signs were all covered with snow."

 

"Ah-hah!" Kelly gloated. "I knew it! I knew it! You better get out of those wet clothes. Whose jacket did you rip off?"

 

"Dr. Hunter loaned me his. He’s coming by to pick it up, later on this afternoon." John slid the soggy garment off and sloshed over to the front desk. "Can I leave this here? Someone’ll be comin’ by ta claim it...hopefully, after it’s had a chance to dry out a little."

 

"Sure. No problem. I’ll drape it over a chair by the register," the pretty desk clerk proposed.

 

"Thanks!"

 

John sloshed through the lobby and past the pool. "Have you eaten yet?"

 

"Yeah. The food’s not bad," Kelly critiqued and followed his frozen friend up the steps to their floor.

 

John Gage entered the Settler’s Dining Room—again—feeling much dryer but still chilled to the bone. He stepped up to a huge, stone, gas fireplace and then stood there, warming his stiff, cold hands...and thinking. He was thinking about Stacey...about the drastic change in climate...about Stacey...about his empty stomach...about Stacey...about everything but his work.

 

The same pretty waitress approached him. "Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in," she apologized. "How’s that guy with the heart attack?"

 

The fireplace hugger turned around and began warming his backside. "Last I heard, he was doin’ okay."

 

"That’s great! Do you want to try ordering again?"

 

"Yeah!" the disrupted diner's blood sugar was now so low, he was about to pass out himself! "You still serving breakfast?...Or is it brunch now?"

 

"Hu-uh?" the bewildered waitress wondered and handed Mr. Valinski’s handsome rescuer another menu.

 

"You know, when you combine breakfast and lunch together..."

 

The little lady smiled and pulled out her order pad. "You can order breakfast anytime of the day around here. Shall I give you some time to study the menu? Or do you already know what you want to...brunch on?"

 

At that point, John didn’t particularly care what he consumed—as long as it was something edible. Firefighters couldn’t afford to be picky eaters. Besides, his defrosting fingers were still too stiff to be turning pages. He smiled and passed the menu back to her—unopened. "Just bring me whatever you fed my friend," he suggested, and placed the backs of his hurting hands on his toasty-warm tush.

 

The girl grinned. "You want coffee with it?"

 

"Yeah. And a large milk, please."

 

The woman returned in about as much time as it takes to toast some bread and slice a tomato. "Where are you going to sit?"

 

The dining room was completely deserted. Which meant her customer had his choice of any seat in the house.

 

The paramedic pulled out the chair closest to the fireplace and plopped himself down onto it. "Thanks," he said, as the girl finished setting her tray’s contents on the table in front of him. Gage glanced around the big empty room. "Would you care to join me?"

 

"I’d love to! But I don’t think my boss would approve."

 

"Go ahead, Sharon..." the hotel’s manager invited, as he came stepping up to them. "I think this snowstorm is going to keep the usual crowd away. So, you can take off early. I’d like to buy the both of you lunch," he announced and offered their guest his hand. "George LaRosse."

 

The famished fireman got to his feet. "Thank you, Mr. LaRosse," he replied and gave the generous man’s hand a hearty shake.

 

"Yeah. Thanks, boss!" Sharon exclaimed and hurried off, in the direction of the kitchen.

 

"Thank you, Mr. Gage," the manager countered.

 

"John," the Californian corrected.

 

"John, we could have had a real tragedy here this morning. I was really impressed with the way you handled the situation. Sharon tells me you’re not a doctor. Are you a medical student?"

 

The paramedic glanced down at his plate. The big, juicy bacon-lettuce-and tomato sandwich it contained made his mouth water. "I’m a fireman paramedic."

 

"A fireman wha-at?"

 

"A paramedic is like an EMT...an emergency medical technician. Someone who is trained to administer ALS...Advanced Life Support," Gage patiently explained, over the loud growling of his empty stomach. "You’re welcome to join us..."

 

"Thank you. But I have to get back to the desk. I would like to talk to you later on...about that CPR thing...if I could. After what just happened here, it might be prudent to have myself and some of my employees trained in that."

 

Gage grinned. "I think that’s a great idea!"

 

"I’ll see you later, then. Enjoy your lunch, John!"

 

"Thanks! I’m sure I will." ‘Eventually,’ he silently finished, as Sharon returned—with a big, juicy BLT of her very own. The hungry gentleman stayed standing and pulled a seat out for her.

 

The girl gave the gallant guy a grateful grin. "Thanks," she said, as he helpfully shoved her chair in.

 

"You’re welcome. And thanks for joining me for brunch, Sharon...?"

 

"Linquist. And thank you for inviting me, John...?"

 

"Gage. My pleasure, Miss Linquist."

 

"Sharon," his pretty companion corrected.

 

"John," the paramedic countered.

 

The brunchers exchanged smiles and handshakes.

 

"Let’s eat!" the faint-feeling fellow with the dangerously low blood sugar level suggested and quickly resumed his seat. "Mmm! Chet was right," he determined, between chews. "This is really good!"

 

Speaking of Chet...

 

Kelly entered the dining room, stepped up to his traveling companion’s table and nonchalantly announced, "There are some guys out in the lobby who want to talk to us." He took a seat beside the pretty gal and flashed her a grin. "Hi, Sharon."

 

The girl grinned back. "Hi, Chet."

 

"Sharon and I have a date tonight," Kelly proudly proclaimed and then hinted, "She’s got a friend..."

 

John took a long swallow of milk and another big bite of his sandwich. "Who are they?"

 

Chet stared at his chum in disbelief. "Don’t you know Sharon? Criminently, Gage! You’re having lunch with her! I don’t know her lady friend’s name." He turned his perplexed gaze to his date for the evening. "Who’s the friend?"

 

Gage managed an amused gasp. "I meant the guys in the lobby."

 

"Oh...I don’t know. But I think they may be reporters. Cuz a couple of ‘em have cameras."

 

"Why would reporters wanna talk to us?"

 

Kelly shrugged. "The manager didn’t say."

 

Sharon stared at them in amazement. "Are you kidding? It’s not everyday that someone saves someone’s life around here. What happened here this morning is big news...for Marquette."

 

The two California firefighters exchanged confused glances. They didn’t find anything particularly newsworthy about what had happened there that morning. It really was no big deal. Well, except to poor Mr. Valinski...

 

"Why all the publicity?" John wondered, aloud.

 

Chet managed another shrug. "Maybe that guy was the mayor?"

 

"Our mayor is a woman," the even more amazed girl informed him.

 

Kelly tried again. "The Chief of Police?"

 

"They’re not here because that man was somebody important. They’re here because you two saved his life, and that makes you heroes. They’re here because you’re heroes."

 

"But...all we did is administer Basic Life Support," the paramedic protested.

 

"Yeah," his chum chimed in. "Anybody—with the proper training—could have done the same thing."

 

"How can you be so modest? Honestly, anyone listening to the two of you talk would think you guys go around saving peoples’ lives all the time!"

 

"Actually, we do," Kelly immodestly confessed. "We’re firefighters. It’s what we do for a living. Especially him," he added, and motioned to his still-munching amigo. "Go ahead, Gage. Show her that little card you carry around with you."

 

The paramedic took another big gulp of his milk. "What little card?"

 

"You know, the one that says: ‘This certifies, etc., etc..."

 

Gage slid his wallet out of his back pocket.

 

Chet snatched it from him and began flipping through it. He found the card in question and held it up in front of the pretty little lady’s face.

 

Sharon held his hand still and read, "This certifies that firefighter John Roderick Gage has met all the necessary requirements...mumble, mumble...qualified Emergency Paramedic...mumble, mumble...administer definitive therapy...mumble, mumble...State of California...County of Los Angeles...California State Board of Medical Examiners." She pulled Chet’s hand down. "You’re a fireman doctor?"

 

"No. No. I’m a fireman paramedic."

 

"What’s the difference?"

 

Seeing as how his friend had gone back to filling his face, Kelly succinctly summed it up. "Well, a doctor can treat patients without a paramedic. But a paramedic can’t treat patients without a doctor."

 

John suppressed a smile and then latched onto his billfold, which his nosy friend had returned the card to, and was now closely examining. "The difference between a doctor and a paramedic is the degree of training we receive. Doctors spend about seven years in Medical School. In comparison, the Paramedic Program is like an advanced first-aid course."

 

"So, then...what—exactly—does a paramedic do?"

 

"A paramedic acts as the eyes, ears and hands of a doctor. When we have a victim of an injury or illness, we see what the problem is...we listen to the complaints...and then we relay that information on to a physician, over the phone. The doctor then tells us how to treat the victim. If it’s something we’ve been trained to do, we do it. If not, we simply stabilize the patient and then transport them to the hospital."

 

Sharon shook her head in disbelief. "And I thought all firemen did was put out fires."

 

"We do that, too," Kelly confessed and snuck a few swigs of the paramedic’s coffee. "But most of our rescues don’t even involve fire."

 

"What happens if something starts burning while you’re off rescuing someone? Someone with a bad heart, for instance..."

 

"Then Johnny and Roy take the Squad to the heart attack victim and we take the Engine to the fire."

 

"Who’s Roy?"

 

"My partner," the paramedic replied.

 

"No wonder you think this was no big deal," the girl suddenly realized. "Your work must be so exciting—and dangerous! What happened here this morning must seem pretty tame, by comparison. I bet you guys have had a lot of close calls..."

 

"As a matter of fact," Kelly began, "just two short weeks ago, Gage, here, had a real close ca—"

 

"—Che-et!" John suddenly interrupted.

 

"In fact," his friend calmly continued, "he just got out of the hospital three days ago—"

 

"—Che-et!" the paramedic repeated and aimed a menacing glare in his mouthy companion’s direction.

 

The girl was now on the edge of her seat. "What happened?"

 

Kelly threw caution to the wind. "He was involved in a rescue where the victim was dying of pneumonia."

 

"A-and...?"

 

The storyteller shrugged. "That’s it."

 

His female audience looked tremendously disappointed. "So…then…what was the close call?"

 

Chet drained the cup dry and then aimed his right index finger at his frowning friend. "He was the victim."

 

Sharon’s jaw dropped.

 

"His doctor gave him strict orders: No more rescuing! For at least a month! ‘Not even a cat out of a tree!’ his doctor said. And we aren’t even in town for half a day—"

 

"—Well, I couldn’t just finish ordering my breakfast and let him die!" John interjected, in his defense.

 

"Maybe not. But you didn’t have to ride in with him. And you should’ve called me sooner!"

 

"I’ll try to remember that...next time. And, next time, you try to remember to keep your phone on the hook." He reached for his coffee. The cup was empty.

 

"It was getting cold," the caffeine thief explained, when his annoyed friend’s gaze fell upon him.

 

Speaking of getting cold...

 

The still slightly chilled Californian suddenly excused himself and stepped back over to the fireplace. Gage stood there, basking in its warm glow...and smiling.

 

"What do we do about those guys in the lobby?" Kelly wondered.

 

The paramedic’s smile disappeared. "Is there another way out of here?"

 

"Yeah," Sharon assured him with a smile. "But, if you leave through the kitchen, you’ll be on the back side of the building. You’ll have to trudge through nearly two feet of snow to get to the side entrances, because none of the sidewalks have been snow-blown, yet. And, if you use any of the emergency exits, alarms’ll start going off."

 

They were trapped. "Then I guess we should just go and get it over with," John gloomily surmised.

 

"You didn’t mention that one was a television camera," Gage grouched beneath his breath, as the two of them stepped up to the small group of guys in the lobby.

 

"You didn’t ask," Kelly grumbled back.

 

"Mr. Gage…Mr. Kelly," the hotel’s manager greeted them. "These gentlemen would like to speak with you...if you’re willing, that is," he added, seeing the paramedic’s unhappy expression.

 

"On one condition," Mr. Gage agreed. "No one is to mention the fact that we’re firefighters, or that I’m a paramedic. We don’t want people to get the impression that you’ve got to be a paramedic or a firefighter before you can administer Basic Life Support."

 

"Yeah," Kelly concurred. "Anyone can learn Basic Life Support. The manager, the waitress, even Mrs. Valinski could’ve done the same thing we did. It just takes a few hours of proper instruction."

 

The reporters reluctantly agreed to the firefighters’ terms.

 

____________________________________________________________________

 

There were three separate interviews, each lasting between ten to fifteen minutes. The first was given to some guy from an FM radio station.

 

The second series of answers—accompanied by photos—were supplied to the city’s only newspaper.

 

Lastly, there was the documented conversation with the roving reporter and camera crew from the local TV station.

 

Curiously enough, the final question posed to them always turned out to be: ‘Why would anyone, in their right mind, ever want to leave warm and sunny Southern California and spend their vacation in the U.P.?’

 

Their pat answer was, "Snow!"

 

Judging by the odd looks that reply always received, the visitors knew their questioners had to be thinking: ‘These guys can’t possibly be in their right minds!’

 

____________________________________________________________________

 

 

Later that snowy afternoon...

 

Chet was seated on a chair in his chum’s room, reading an article in an outdoor magazine—all about snowmobiling.

 

John was lying on his bed, gazing out the window at the still flying flakes, and concentrating hard on relaxing.

 

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door.

 

Gage got up and answered it.

 

It was Dr. Hunter. "Hi, John! I hope I’m not disturbing you."

 

"No, no-o. C’mon in...." the paramedic spotted the doc’s coat, draped over his arm. "Did it dry out?"

 

"Yes. It did."

 

"Oh, Dr. Hunter, this is Chet Kelly," he introduced, as his friend came stepping up to them. "Chet, this is the guy whose jacket I ripped off."

 

Kelly and Hunter shook hands.

 

"Would you care to sit down?" Kelly inquired and motioned to his vacated seat.

 

"No. Thanks. I can’t stay. I just stopped by to ask John, here, a quick question. I hate to ask you this. Because I know you’re on your vacation. But, weather permitting, we’re having a meeting Wednesday night to organize a community Emergency Services Pro—"

 

"—Excuse me, Dr. Hunter," Chet interrupted, when he saw where the conversation was headed. "Please, don’t ask him. Cuz’ he’ll accept. And his doctor gave him strict orders—"

 

"—Che-et!" the paramedic stepped in front of his friend. "What are you doing?"

 

"I’m helping you keep your promise to Dr. Brackett," Kelly calmly replied and then peered around him. "He’s still recovering from a bad case of pneumonia. Plus, he’s suffering from complete physical exhaustion and he's on a medical leave of ab—"

 

Gage placed a hand over Chet’s mouth, in desperation.

 

Kelly quickly pulled it away and completed his sentence, "—sence."

 

The physician stood there, looking highly amused. "I understand. Thanks for telling me," he told Chet and turned to take his leave.

 

"Wait, Doc!" John urged and held the door shut.

 

"It would be unethical to ask you to do something that would go contrary to one of my colleague’s orders. In other words, forget it, John! And listen to your doctor. Believe me, I know what I’m talking about when I say he knows what he’s talking about," he teased. "It was nice meeting you, gentlemen. I hope you enjoy your stay in the U.P.," he added with a grin.

 

"Thanks!" Kelly called after the disappearing doctor.

 

John quietly closed the door and slowly turned in his infuriating friend’s direction.

 

"Don’t blame me-e! Blame Dr. Brackett," Chet chided. "Before we left, he made me promise to look after you. Your R&R is s’posed to consist, strictly, of relaxation and recuperation. Brackett’s orders!"

 

The paramedic’s countenance softened and he gave his guardian a grateful grin. "Ah-ah, gee-ee. Thanks for lookin’ out for me—Mo-om."

 

His Old Mother Hen of a friend suddenly turned stern. At least, he pretended to. "You’d better watch it, sonny! Or I’ll send you to your room."

 

Sonny’s grin broadened. "This i-is my room!"

 

"Oh...ri-ight," Kelly was forced to concede. "You’d still better watch it! Or I’ll send you to the other room."

 

The paramedic collapsed back onto his bed and then lay there, looking extremely relaxed...and most amused.

 

Chet picked his magazine up and then plunked himself back down in his chair—er, John’s chair. The pictures made snowmobiling look so appealing. He glanced up at the window and wondered how long the snow would last.

 

Hopefully, it would stick around long enough for them to give the snow machines a try.