“Papa. . . are there really such things as angels? And what do they do?”
I tucked the blanket under my seven-year-old grandson’s chin and stroked his silky blond hair. It was his bedtime, but he was wide awake. That was a good thing, since this was going to take a while. Many faces of men and women I had known and worked with flashed through my mind. Telling their stories wasn’t always easy and shouldn’t be hurried.
“Yes, Christian, there are angels. And I’ve known a few.”
Chapter 1
“180”
Everybody has a story, give them a chance, and they’ll tell you.
We’re going to need something to sedate the guy back in Trauma A.” Lori dropped the man’s chart to the counter and walked behind the nurses’ station to wash her hands. “Someone strong.”
“Willie Childers?” Amy asked. “The twenty-year-old Officer Jones just brought in?”
“Yes.” Lori shook her head and dried her hands. “He was completely calm when we took him to the back. I was wondering why Elton kept the man’s cuffs on and why the other highway patrolman kept a hand on his shoulder. I’m glad they were there though, ‘cause when I asked him to get up on the stretcher, he exploded. Started kicking and screaming. It was all we could do to get him on the stretcher and on his back. If he does that again, he’s going to hurt himself or someone else.”
“So that’s the ruckus we heard down the hallway,” I observed. “Thought it was a party or something going on.”
“It was a party, all right.” Lori straightened her shirt and walked around the counter. “A PCP party, by the looks of it. Elton and his partner responded to a car in a ditch out on the interstate and found this guy sitting on the bank, staring at the moon. He had a couple of outbursts with them, but they managed to get him cuffed and into the patrol car. Now he’s our problem—until we can get him medically cleared.”
“Well, let’s go see if we can do that.”
I grabbed the clipboard of Minor Trauma A and headed down the hallway.
Elton Jones and his partner flanked the stretcher in the left-rear corner of the room. A young man was lying there shirtless with his eyes closed.
“What you got here, Elton?” I asked quietly, not wanted to startle the moon-staring young man.
I stood beside the highway patrolman, and my eyes were drawn to his always impeccable and neatly pressed uniform. The top two buttons of his long-sleeved shirt were gone, and his right shirtsleeve was ripped to the elbow, its tattered edges dangling from his forearm.
He looked at me and then at his torn sleeve. He shifted his body and moved his arm out of my view, but I had seen them—the burn scars that began at his wrist, encircled his forearm, and disappeared above his elbow.
. . . excerpt from Angels to the Rescue
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