Burning Wild

Chapter Two

I held tightly to Harley as we rode in the back of the ambulance. His white and copper fur was covered in ash and he was trembling uncontrollably, no doubt just as terrified from our close encounter with death as I was. A paramedic handed me an oxygen mask so I could cleanse my lungs with fresh air. After a deep inhale, I placed the mask on Harley, who was panting hard.

"What's your name, sweetheart?" the friendly EMT asked as she shined a light in my eyes. I squinted and fought the urge to turn my throbbing head away.

"Catalina De la Rosa. But everyone calls me Cat," I said. My voice was hoarse from the smoke.

"Well, Cat, it doesn't look like you sustained any major injuries. But we're going to take you to Central Hospital to be checked out, just in case," she said.

When we got to the emergency room, the medics had to practically tear Harley from my grasp so he could be cared for at the nearby veterinary clinic, assuring me that they would take care of him while I received my checkup. They were kind and comforting, but their words of encouragement didn't prevent the anxiety that consumed me at letting Harley out of my sight.

I was led to an examination room where my blood pressure, heart rate, and respirations were checked. Other than the small, second-degree burn on my right palm, I made out fairly well. I couldn't say the same for the man who had saved me. His wails still haunted me as I sat alone in the small room, waiting for the doctor to sign off on my release.

After a clean bill of health and a prescription for some burn cream, my discharge paperwork was signed. I was almost to the exit of the emergency wing when the doors flew open and a conglomerate of medical professionals rushed inside.

"Out of the way!" someone called.

I pressed against the wall as a gurney rushed past me with an unconscious patient strapped onto it. The horde passed in a blur- there one second, gone the next. Though his eyes were closed, and most of his face was obscured by an oxygen mask, I would recognize the patient anywhere- it was the fireman who had saved my life.

The man looked so different without his khaki fire suit. He'd been stripped down to black work pants and a soft white t-shirt that was spotted with soot and blood. His shirt had been ripped down the center to expose his bare torso, his bronzed and defined abs shining under a thick layer of perspiration.

My heart quickened and hopeful optimism filled me. The man looked fairly unscathed- perhaps he would be okay, after all. But then I glanced down to his left arm and had to stifle a gasp. The skin from his shoulder to his wrist was deep scarlet and shined with angry blisters. I could see the underlying tissue of the man's arm, now exposed after the top layers of skin had been seared away by the scorching flames. The center of the wound was cream-colored and secreting some sort of yellow pus. It was already festering, a repugnant odor of burnt flesh emanating so strongly that I could smell it from several feet away. I held my breath, worried that I might vomit because of the smell. I was no medical professional, but this looked to be a severe injury. A life-threatening injury.

Despite the odor, I took a step forward and eavesdropped on a couple of nurses who were bustling about, trying to run an IV into his uninjured arm and apply antiseptics. Words like respiratory failure, nerve damage, and indefinite coma stood out from their conversation.

No, the fireman wasn't dead. At least not yet. But it was clear the hospital staff weren't optimistic.

The site of the injury became more than I could handle, and like the coward I was, I tucked tail and left the building. Between the smoke inhalation and the overwhelming reminder of what it had cost the man to save my life, I was soon doubled over, vomiting in the landscaping just outside the hospital. I retched repeatedly until my eyes watered, my nose burned, and I was left dry heaving in the bushes.