A Sunday in June

by E!lf

A young paramedic sat in the waiting room at Rampart General Hospital, his strawberry blond hair damp with perspiration, shoulders slumped, head downcast.  China-blue eyes studied his own name tag, cradled in his hands.  With his right thumb he traced the incised letters.

D E S O T O.

"I've never been so scared in my life," he admitted.  "The last thing I expected, when we got that call, was that it would be him on the ground.  And, you know, I've always known I loved him.  But I never realized it was such a fierce thing.  It came at me like a wildcat, all teeth and claws.  I'd have fought the Angel of Death barehanded to hold onto him.  And I never realized it was so gentle.  I wanted to take him in my arms like a child, cradle him and promise him that everything would be all right.  Did I ever tell him how much he means to me?  Did I ever thank him for all he's been to me and done for me and given me?  Will I ever have the chance again?"

"The doctor's doing everything he can."  John Gage's voice was soft with empathy, but he made no promises.  They'd both seen too many heart attack victims go sour.

The door to treatment room three opened and the two men braced themselves, shoulder to shoulder, drawing strength from one another.  Mike Morton came out, came over and went down to one knee beside DeSoto.

"It was touch and go for awhile," he said, "but we've got him stabilized and we're going to move him up to cardiac care.  See if we can figure out why this happened and keep it from ever happening again."  He ran a hand through his greying hair, then reached out to squeeze the younger man's shoulder.  "Hey!  You gonna be okay?"

"He's gonna live?"

"Yeah, Chris.  Your dad's gonna live."

The End.

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