Siren Call

Author

1

Sleep. He needed to sleep. William Marshall tipped his head forward against the locker, seeking relief. A little too quickly. Thunk.

Ouch.

The locker door was cold. Grey metallic, cold. Maintenance-wing institutional, cold. Unheated hallway with painted cinder-block walls, cold. Blunt cranial contact with it did nothing for this headache. Only sleep, he knew, could remedy this affliction. A solid day of sleep.

Not likely.

The medic drew in a sharp breath then whispered while he exhaled.

I hate nightshifts.

A door creaked open.

Marsh! Get in here!

Pat Lemay’s Aussie twang rattled down the short reach of ancient hallway, long abandoned by all other departments at Mountain Mercy Hospital, stabbing through Marshall’s left temple and making a right-angle shot to lodge in the back of his skull. His forehead still on the locker, the medic winced as he rolled his head to look toward the office door. Light from a stippled window at the far end of the hallway silhouetted Lemay’s squat form, one hand on the half-open door, his body half behind it. Even from this distance and in the harsh light, Marshall could see the Brillo mess of the boss’s hair. The medic knew the pose and what it meant, grimacing as another bolt of pain rocked his skull. He exhaled and slumped, rolling his head back again, steeling himself for another shift-change briefing with his superior.

I hate dayshifts, too.

Marshall hooked his padlock onto the latch and lumbered down the hall, head throbbing. Lemay’s office door was a retro piece, scavenged, the medic had long-ago guessed, from a landfill. The boss had repeatedly insisted that the wood was the finest oak, but Marshall, drawing from ancient employment at a sawmill in southern British Columbia, figured it to be hemlock from west of the continental divide. Black lettering on opaque glass announced the tiny, cluttered kingdom ruled from within: Mountain EMS. Pat Lemay, Manager.

Lemay had left the door open. Marshall stepped through and made the habitual twisting manoeuvre to get past the corner of a metal desk, just cleared by the sweep of the door. He simultaneously raised an elbow to avoid dislodging the toppling in-basket from its usual perch. The last time a sleep-deprived Marshall had neglected that acrobatic detail, he had sent the contents plunging to the floor and had earned an extra dose of his supervisor’s shift-change wrath. Lemay, as Marshall had since often been reminded, did not take well to having his priorities randomly reshuffled so early in the day. Marshall made for the metal-framed, wooden stacking chair under a steel-barred, sub-grade window – the only one in the office – and dropped heavily onto it. The chill of the painted concrete wall just beyond burrowed quickly into his bones, evidence that he was beyond tired.

Lemay was jammed behind the desk. Marshall had no idea how his boss – hardly lithe – had negotiated the jumble of his office so quickly. Now the man was studying his subordinate, shaking his head.

You look like crap, Marsh.

The medic blew out a loud breath and replied with his eyes focussed somewhere beyond the ceiling.

Just trying to follow your example.

Marshall dropped his gaze to study his boss for the certain reaction. Lemay’s pocked face had already begun to flush. One sentence and he was already under the man’s skin. This, Marshall could tell, was going to be a good one. Lemay tossed a pen onto the desk – dropping the gauntlet. The verbal gloves were off.

I mean it, Marsh! You look like you haven’t slept since the Great Depression, which is probably when that uniform last saw any maintenance. You know, we do this job in the public eye. We have to look, to appear to be, an agency that the public would like to trust. Our contract with the Town will be up soon. We’ve got a job-security concern. Or six.

Marshall regarded the ceiling and exhaled again. The headache stepped up a notch. He levelled his gaze and took up the cause.

We?…I don’t see you pulling any street shifts, Pat. And have you looked at the run reports – the meticulous, legally binding, documentation of the patient care that I have so diligently and selflessly provided and uploaded to your company?

Run reports? I haven’t had time! I’m prepping for a meeting with the medical director at nine!

Well, that gives you a bit shy of two hours to accomplish something. Like finding your coffee mug…

Marshall took in the chaos of the office.

…It’s probably in here, somewhere…

The medic quickly leaned forward to silence the comeback. These sessions were always a menacing blend of sparring for the heck of it, discussion of what Lemay saw as discipline issues, and bargaining sessions initiated by Marshall for everything from better uniforms to upgraded equipment to improved safety to better scheduling.

…And if you had looked at the run reports, you would have seen that your senior, most dedicated, most underpaid EMT, up-staffed a unit on the last night of his meagre days off – and saved your company’s bacon once again – and for his trouble, made not one, but two round-trips to Calgary in the middle of the night. That’s better than four hundred and forty K behind the wheel, as no one else wanted to drive, because no one else was awake enough to drive. So, now, your ace employee has been up saving lives and easing suffering for twenty-three hours and is reporting for his regularly scheduled, twelve-hour, first-call shift of a eight-shift block, to work with any number of underqualified, hapless goons that you seem to rotate through my unit.

Lemay leaned forward to lock horns, jabbing the air wildly with a stubby finger as he spoke.

Save me the sympathy trip, Marsh! I don’t care if you’ve been to the moon and back on the hump of a camel with no pay, you don’t come to work looking like you’ve been dumped out of a suitcase. Not to this job, anyway. You are my most senior medic. I expect you to set an appropriate example.

Marshall cocked his head as if to better listen. After a few seconds, he shrugged.

Did I just hear a ‘thank-you?’

What you heard, Marsh, was a warning shot, fired across your bow…

Lemay stood, looked over the heap of his desk at Marshall’s lap, then plunked back down in disgust.

…What the heck is that? Coffee?

Yes, cream and sugar. Blame it on –

You know you’re not supposed to eat and drink in the rig!

And when else would I get to do it? Add it to my list of sins.

You know what the definition of insolence is, Marsh?!

The boss was on his feet, fuming; his face red, his right hand cleaving the air wildly. Marshall knew that half of the performance was for show. Despite the headache, he decided to play along.

No, but I am always ready to learn.

Insolence is you talking to your supervisor – to ME – at shift change – on any day in any month of the year! In any other job, you’d be back inside that suitcase that you tumbled out of, and packing down the road. I hear they’re hiring at McDonald’s.

How do you know that, Pat? Did you put in your résumé again?

Oh, that’s cute, Marsh.

The medic squinted and rubbed his forehead, suddenly tired of the sparring, feeling ill again.

Look, Pat, if you’re done with this interrogation, I’ve got a unit to check over.

Well, if you wait for the introductions, you can do it with your new partner.

Lemay had sat down and was rummaging around on the desktop, pretending to look for some vital document. Marshall, however, was quick again to his feet, fighting the headache, leaning forward, palms pressed down on the clutter of his boss’s desk.

What?…New partner?…Another one?! Where’s Curtis?

Lemay looked up.

Curtis?

Yeah. That walk-in from High River who you were threatening to make my regular partner.

Oh, that Curtis…He quit.

He quit? When?

End of your last block, Marsh. Said he couldn’t take it, anymore. To his credit, he made it through sixteen shifts with you.

And you didn’t want to tell me?

Nah. Why have you fret away your days off? Anyway, I’ve got it covered, see?…

Lemay straightened up with a file folder in hand, regarding Marshall squarely with a trace of satisfaction on his face.

…Ah, yes, here she is. Miranda Walker, EMT-P – top of her class at SAIT, practicums with Calgary Fire-EMS and Blairmore. Worked…Worked, two years in Pincher Creek as an EMT-A before she took the paramedic training. Just think, Marsh, another young, promising mind for you to mould. Lucky gal.

He dropped the folder on the desk and leaned back in his chair to await the explosion.

"Don’t I get any say in this?! You toss new hires at me, what?…two, three times a year? And never with even a day’s warning! Then, when I’m just starting to get them straight, you assign them to another platoon. Or, when they come to their senses, they bail and make tracks to another outfit. A couple of provinces away, if they can afford it. I never get to work with anyone who knows me or the job. I never get my back covered. I am, by default, apparently the on-the-job trainer for this whole squad, and all I get for it is a dressing-down or three from you every week. Well, Miranda Walker had better be on top of her game because, this time, I’m only gonna be riding along."

As Marshall collapsed into his chair, a light tapping on the doorjamb arrested the pair’s attention. They looked up as a cheerful face peered into the gloom of the office.

Hi. I’m–I’m Miranda Walker. Sorry I’m late. I was waiting at the human resources office, but, of course, it doesn’t open until eight. So I came right over. An RN told me to ‘go out back in the hallway.’ She was right about that!

She was about five-seven with a light but solid build, straight blond hair that touched her shoulders, and blue eyes. She wore a snug-fitting, light-blue top, jean jacket that was open, khaki pants with cargo pockets, and no make-up. Marshall guessed her to be about twenty-seven or twenty-eight. He was accustomed to meeting strangers and forming impressions. It was a key facet of the job, sometimes required fifteen times a shift. He tried to put a mental finger on this first impression. This gal was attractive, to be sure, but there was something else he had never seen in a new hire. It took a moment, but then he had it, and also the reason that the quality had stumped him. It was a pairing of opposite characteristics: modest confidence. Marshall took another look at her. It’s too bad, he thought, that we have to put her into one of our jumpsuits.

The silence ran a bit too long. Lemay finally broke it by clearing his throat. It was obvious to Marshall that the boss had never met this recruit. Lemay half-stood to greet the new arrival, reaching awkwardly over the clutter of his desk to extend his hand.

Miranda…Pat Lemay…We spoke on the phone. Come on in. Marsh and I were kind of discussing…uh, scheduling. Isn’t that right, Marsh?

Miranda took Lemay’s hand and shook it, cutting in before Marshall could reply.

Um, it sounded like you were discussing some rather specific details.

Marshall heard nothing barbed in the delivery. Another impression clicked for him: impartial. Lemay boomed a contrived laugh that broke off into a hacking cough. He let go of Miranda’s hand and waved backward through the air.

Ah, don’t mind Marsh. He was just venting…as usual.

Marshall responded without looking away from Miranda.

Venting is required. It’s the only way to keep the air in here from going stagnant. Like the bodies and minds that breathe it.

A nervous smile crossed Miranda’s face. She looked from Marshall to Lemay as Marshall looked to Lemay and then back to Miranda. Seeing that a formal introduction was not going to be in his supervisor’s repertoire, the EMT stood and extended a hand.

I’m William Marshall. My friends call me Marsh.

They shook. Marshall noted that her grip was firm.

And your enemies?

She was still holding his hand, smiling, looking right at him. The medic could feel his face begin to flush.

Uh…

He shot Lemay a sideways glance.

…They call me Marsh.

Well…Marsh…I am pleased to meet you. My friends call me Miri.

Her smile grew bigger as she let go of his hand.

Likewise…Miri.

Well, you guys have a hundred years to get to know each other this morning, but what I need right now is for Miri, here, to get to know the job…Miranda, despite all his shortcomings – I’ve got a list of them around here somewhere – have to, to keeping adding to it – Marsh, believe it or not, is the best I’ve got. He’s been with Mountain EMS longer than any of us – twelve years now, isn’t it?…

The medic nodded.

…He kind of came with the job when I took it. Like dirt stuck under the front-door mat…Marsh has done thousands of calls in Banff National Park. He’s seen it all. Twice. He knows the deal inside out and backward. Can do it in his sleep. Which is usually the case. And despite appearances…

Lemay pointed over the desk and downward at the pale splotch in the lap of Marshall’s navy coveralls.

…is well-read and sharp as a tack on everything related to treatment guidelines, safety, and ops in general. His only drawback is that, well, he is kind of grandfathered to an old era. He nailed all the skills, but he never completed his EMT-P. He was, at the time, one exam short of completion. Kind of like one brick short of a load, if you know what I mean…

Lemay tapped his temple and laughed at his own lame joke. No one joined in.

"…Well, anyway, when we became affiliated with Mountain Mercy Hospital, the medical director insisted that all new hires be Advanced Life Support – EMT-Ps – real paramedics, like you. Marsh took the course but never completed the final hurdle. He knows it all – has even stayed up to date with new skills – but he doesn’t have the licence. He’s kind of slipped through the cracks. Wormed his way through, you might say. He’s only an EMT-A. So when there is a need for those advanced skills, you will run them with Marsh as your coach, if needed. Got it?"

Marshall could see the profound confusion in Miranda’s expression. He cut in.

There is logic in my method, Pat. For every ALS skill that I would learn to become an EMT-P, I would have to forget a BLS skill. Less is more. I am providing better patient care by holding myself back.

Miri was open-mouthed. Lemay threw up his hands in a dramatic gesture.

Disregard, Marsh, Miri! Yes, that’s right. I’m telling the new hire that she, at least on paper, is more qualified than her senior partner. Get over it!…Any other questions?

If she was reeling from the verbal assaults and insults that she had endured in her first few minutes on the job, Marshall thought that Miranda was covering it well. He half-expected that her next question would be, Where’s the door out of here? Her reply came as a surprise.

Yeah, sure…where do I get one of those flashy jumpsuits?

2

They walked the hallway in silence, stopping at the first metal locker of a short row bolted to the wall. Marshall flipped off his padlock, cracked the door, and reached in to the top shelf for a container. He tipped two pills into his hand and tossed them into his mouth, swallowing hard, still staring at the wall.

Water is for wimps. Don’t worry. They’re not narcotic. Not yet, anyway. Headache…

He turned to face her and tapped his temple.

…Been up all night…and most of the day before it…Sleep doesn’t happen much.

He motioned at the bank of lockers.

…You can have the one that’s two over, if you like. I use the one in between for wet winter boots. Better take an empty one before the janitor puts her mops in it – again.

Miri looked around in wide-eyed disbelief.

This…this is the locker room?!

Yeah. Nice, eh? Asbestos flooring. Clunky lockers that the high school turfed from their gym about a decade ago. It’s true – I picked them up from the landfill in one of our rigs. And flickering fluorescent lights. And air conditioning. Especially in winter.

Um, where do we get changed?

You, in the women’s room. Me, in the men’s. Unless the men’s is occupied. Then I’ll be joining you. Or vice-versa.

He winked.

You’re kidding?

No. It’s real efficient. I mean, see? The johns are right across the hall…

He pointed.

…So it cuts down the treadwear on your boots. Of course, it’s not so great if both johns are occupied or the pipes are burst when we need to get changed in a hurry.

Uh…the package they sent me talked glowingly about crew amenities.

Oh, sure. Wait till you see the bunkhouse.

But…isn’t there room for lockers in the bunkhouse?

No. Not if you want to be able to get into bed without sidestepping a chunk of high-school surplus junk, or, for that matter, if you want to be able to open the front door…It’s a real…Well, you’ll see it soon enough.

Miri stared at Marshall, confused. He shrugged, shut his locker, and set off down the hall. She soon caught up. After a left-hand turn they reached a junction where the maintenance wing abutted the newer construction of the main body of the hospital. Here, the fruits of community fundraising had kicked in. The fluorescent pall changed to a warm glow, the grey paint over cinder blocks gave way to soft yellows and ochre on drywall, with oak-stained wainscoting and butternut trim. Marshall turned to Miri and gestured toward the hallway.

‘Two roads diverged in a yellow wood.’

That’s Robert Frost.

He nodded.

It is, Miri. I’m impressed.

Marsh, I took English for a year before getting into this line of work.

Good for you. Some of our patients speak English. A few of those even speak it well enough to be understood…Now we need to do three things to get you ready for the job, and I don’t know how to prioritize them. We need to get you a uniform. We need to visit the comms lockup to get you a radio, a pager, and a cell phone. And we need to get me a coffee. Or two.

If you have two coffees, that would be, let me see…doing four things. At least.

He studied her and smiled. He couldn’t help it. Could it be, Marshall thought, that Miranda Walker was fun? How long had it been since he had had fun doing this job? Doing anything? Seeing that she was smiling, too, he decided to play with her comment.

Well, yes, but let’s analyze this. If we get you your uniform and stuff first, then you are ready for work, which means that nothing will happen today, and I’ll be at least half an hour getting the caffeine that my aching, sleep-deprived head so desperately needs. Now, if we go straight to the cafeteria, I’ll be two sips into the java when the pager tones fire for a big wreck halfway out to nowhere. We’ll be gone all day, flying in helicopters and crawling around in spilled antifreeze and broken glass, and you’ll ruin your civvies in the cause of saving five or six lives. Your photo will be on the front page of the local newspaper. And I’ll still have this headache long after it’s all done. So…let’s go to the cafeteria.

Good plan.

Marshall motioned to the right-hand hallway and the short walk to the cafeteria. When they arrived, he held the glass door open for her.

Miri, I’ll give you my standard warning. The coffee is passable, just barely, but eat here at your own peril.

Two men in street clothes looked up as they entered.

Those guys are eating.

Yes, they didn’t heed my advice. Never do. They are EMT-Ps adding weight to the middles of their slumping careers.

You have a thing against EMT-Ps?

He caught the seriousness in her question, and in the accompanying expression.

Nah, Miri. You’re cool. My tirade back in Pat’s office was to see if I could get a rise out of him. Works every time.

Hey, Marsh! Who’s your friend? Hoo-wee! Things are looking up.

Steel yourself, Miri. This can’t help but be ugly…

They stepped into the room and pulled up at the table. Marshall motioned to the heckler.

…This is Ding…

Ding?

Yes, Keith Spalding. And this is his partner, Dong.

Dong?

Yes, David Wong. Most of us call them Ding and Dong, which is fitting, because every call they do is a ding-dong gong show.

The pair heckled. Marshall looked at their plates.

How are the waffles, guys? Break any teeth?

These, Marsh, are not waffles. This…

The medic speared a blackened object with a plastic fork.

…is French toast.

"Oh, yes, the pain brulé. Like I said, Ding – break any teeth?"

No, but I’ll bust a few of yours if you don’t introduce us to your friend.

Sure, anything to avoid random violence. Keith, David, this is Miranda Walker…my new partner.

Marshall relished the moment. The pair sat speechless like pole-axed bulls until Spalding found some trite words.

Miranda…Ah, ‘brave new world that has such people in it.’

She smiled politely and gave her standard reply.

Now that’s original.

Marshall cut in.

"Shakespeare, The Tempest, Act Five, Scene One, lines two-oh-five, two-oh-six."

Miri regarded him, stunned.

Now that’s impressive. Lots of guys have tried a variation on that opening line, but no one has ever given me the correct citation. Most do a royal job of blowing it sideways, and then some.

Spalding voiced his derision while waving a backward hand in Marshall’s direction.

That’s Marsh for you. A walking textbook…What’s the specific gravity of an isotonic solution at fifteen degrees Celsius while you’re flying at twenty-four hundred metres with a decreasing barometric pressure? Boooorrring!…Pull up a chair, Miranda. Tell us about yourself.

As she sat, Marshall made for the coffee machine. He returned with a large paper cup and sat next to her. She had waited for him and now peered into the cup.

No cream and sugar?

No…I have different tastes at different times of day, and for different brews.

Marshall was impressed that she had picked up that detail. Miranda addressed the three men.

First, I like to be called Miri. I grew up in Calgary, went to U of C for most of a year, taking an arts degree before I got into this. I took the EMT-A course at SAIT, worked two years at Pincher Creek. Took my EMT-P at SAIT, did my practicums with Calgary Fire/EMS and in Blairmore. And now…here I am. Fresh out of the paramedic box.

Spalding leaned forward, hands folded on the table. He was a short, fit-looking but wiry man, with cropped, dark hair and a permanent smirk on his boyish face. Some, Miri thought, might consider his expression appealing. But most, she guessed, found it annoying.

Thanks for the sketch, Miri. Now give us the dirt.

The dirt?

Spalding glanced from side to side and lowered his head and his voice before looking back at Miri.

Yes, you know, like how many broken hearts you left behind. Like how many desperate firefighter-EMTs are hot on your trail, coveting a shift assignment with you.

He winked.

Oh, Ding, eat your excuse for a breakfast!

It was Marshall, shaking his head in disgust. Spalding gave him a sharp look.

Cut it out, Father Bear. Let the girl answer.

Miri had leaned back in her chair. Her arms were folded and she was nodding slightly. Marshall could see that she was ticked and wondered how she would handle it. She leaned forward quickly and whispered.

I’m a woman, Ding, not a girl. And I’ll give you your answers one at a time…

Spalding nodded, regarding her with an eager expression.

…None of your business, and none of your business. Done with that coffee, Marsh?

She was still face to face with Spalding, whose eyes had screwed into a perplexed frown.

No, but I think we’re finished here. Let’s go to the comms lockup and spend our time, uh…more productively.

3

In the side room off the ambulance bay, William Marshall set his cup on the floor and put a key in the lock of the communications cabinet. As he opened it, he considered how best to address Spalding’s rudeness. He turned to Miri. Standing a head above her, he moved back half a step.

Look, Miri, it isn’t my place to apologize for someone else. On this crew, that would leave me no time for work. But I am guessing that your first impression of Spalding is probably similar to an impression long-held by most of us.

And what would that impression be?

Well, you didn’t hear this from me, but the guy is an arrogant, self-centred jerk.

Yeah. Copy that. How is he as a medic?

Marshall shook his head.

You appear to be sharp enough to figure things out. I will say that we have a few people on the crew who are really in it for the patients. The others, I am not so sure. In fact, I am certain I am not so sure.

That’s important to you, isn’t it…the patients?

Marshall dug through the locker, nodding as he answered.

It had better be! Miri, that’s all that matters. I don’t work for Mountain EMS, Pat Lemay, Mountain Mercy Hospital, the 911 dispatchers, or the provincial ministry of whatever they are calling themselves this week. I work for the guy busted up at the bottom of the stairwell, the grandmother waiting to go to Calgary for a CT scan, the family upside down in the ditch in their minivan. I work for our patients, and I do it as safely as I can, and nothing else in this job really matters.

Really? Not even getting along with your crew mates?

Marshall looked straight at her.

I get along with the ones that I have learned I can get along with. The rest, I work around them, and it doesn’t matter to me what they think about how I do the job, or about me. I know what I’m about…

Miri gave a chuckle that Marshall could tell was mostly the product of nerves.

…I’m pretty arrogant, too, eh?…Look, I can screw up with the best of them. I mess up on every shift, on every call, to some degree or other. But whatever mistakes I make, generally I like to think of them as errors of commission, made with the aim of providing patient care, not errors of omission made by not properly providing it. I step back after a call and troubleshoot. Every time. And it usually hits me like a brick in the face, how I could have done better.

You think about every step, all the time?

No! I’d grind to a halt if I did that on a hectic day. Anybody would. There are too many details to cover. A great deal of this job becomes rote out of necessity – like any job…

He shrugged.

…But you know that! You’ve worked with Calgary Fire-EMS…You know routine. You know busy. And then some, I bet…But the big picture, you’ve always got to be thinking that one out – where is this patient coming from, what are they going through, what do I know already that I can apply, what other calls mirror this one and how did they play out, what can I learn to tuck away for another time, where is this patient going after they leave my care, how can I lessen their pain or the damage, how can I best help those who are with them, those who they may be leaving behind?…

The silence lasted a few seconds. Marshall was suddenly feeling self-conscious. He looked down at the floor.

…Look, some people around here get sick of me when I go on like this. Actually, they all do.

He laughed and looked up, catching her smile.

…They just want to do the calls, see a new fix or two – perhaps – and pull down a cheque every two blocks. Look, tell me to shut up anytime. But you’ll have to take a number to do it…

They both laughed.

…You’ve been doing the job, what?…Five years? You know all this anyway.

She was shaking her head slightly and smiling.

Four years. You know, Marsh, when I finished my EMT-P there was a bit of a letdown. I enjoyed the intensity of that learning experience, having to know everything and all the time. Always being ‘on’ and being evaluated as to how well. I had wondered if my schooling was over. I’m glad that it isn’t going to be.

Marshall had to look at the floor again. He was blushing. He couldn’t remember the last time that had happened before this morning. And now twice. When he summoned the nerve to look up, he was smiling.

You can still tell me to shut up any time.

Will do. But I have one more question, first.

Sure. Ask away. Everybody gets one question, annually. Because it’s your first day on the job, I might grant you two…maybe three.

"Thanks. How did you know the correct citation from The Tempest?"

Oh. I memorize stuff like that. You never know when it might come in handy. Or not.

You’ve memorized citations from Shakespeare?!

Yeah, a few.

OK. Give me another one.

"‘Out, out brief candle! Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player…’ etc. Macbeth, Act Five, Scene Five, lines twenty-three and twenty-four."

That’s crazy!

"Actually, Miri, most people think that Shakespeare was a genius, not crazy. You were an arts major, right?"

Miri chuckled and shook her head as Marshall returned his attention to the metal cabinet.

Why do you do this job, Marsh?

He turned his head, surprised.

You don’t pussyfoot, do you? Just want to know my operating principle, before we are even out of the gate?

She shrugged, not sure how to read him.

Sorry, Marsh.

Ah, no apologies required. You know, no one has ever asked me that. No one…

There was a brief silence as Marshall’s gaze drifted off. He took a deep breath and refocussed.

…I do this job for the challenge. You have your smarts, your partner, the stuff in the kit and in the truck, maybe a bit of other help at hand, and a time constraint. And you’ve got to come up with a fix or two, or you have to walk away.

Game on. Game off.

Yeah. But even the ‘game off’ is part of the game. We…we have to know when to disengage.

She nodded, aware, from his posture, that Marshall had expended some emotional energy in making that reply.

What about Pat?

Oh, boy. Now you want the story on the boss?

Yeah, that Pat.

Marshall exhaled.

Well, let’s say that Pat is a stellar graduate of the three-dee management technique.

Three-dee?

Yeah: delegate, deny, and disappear…

She laughed.

…And if any particularly difficult circumstance involves a paper trail, he spontaneously moves on to the four-dee management technique.

OK. What’s the fourth ‘dee?’

He regarded her deadpan.

Destroy. You know. Shredder.

Oh.

And let’s really just say that, generally, his approach to the touchy-feely side of employee relations is especially touchy, kind of like: the morale will continue until the beatings improve.

I…I can’t tell if you’re serious.

Me?…Always…But anyway, what happens in Pat’s head or in his office doesn’t really have any bearing on how we do our jobs…Except at shift change when he needs to unload. Then we have to find some way to deflect the onslaught and decompress afterward, et-cetera, et-cetera. But no matter what kind of drama he precipitates and blows as a dark cloud over our heads, the calls come in, the doors go up, and we roll. At least, that’s my version of handling it – my compartment syndrome – how I keep the crap in its box, how I keep the snakes at bay. Particularly his snakes.

So, Marsh, with all these…distractions to providing patient care, tell me how you stay on task? How do you go to the pile every day, packing the same shovel?

He laughed.

Oh, I like that! I really do. Especially as you haven’t seen the shovel, yet…It’s kind of very broken. Doesn’t even have a handle…But, how do I stay on task? That’s easy…I strive most to mitigate what is common and what can kill. My patients, Miri, live in a supply-and-demand economy, and have only three currencies that matter: oxygen…

He tucked the binder under one arm and punctuated his response, fully animated, counting off three fingers on one hand.

…glucose, and blood. When my patient is conscious, I am their financial advisor and I help them to manage. When they are unconscious, I appropriate control of all their funds. I call the shots on how those funds are invested, and my patient lives or dies as a result.

Wow! Is that all?…Come on?! You don’t see life and death in the balance that often, not on the two thousand calls a year that this squad does, and that you do, what – one-quarter of?!

Miri, you’ll see it here ten times out of proportion to the average. This IS where it happens. Big highway. Crazy speeds. Big mountains. Crazy people with a gazillion immortality complexes. People die here, in any given year, not in the hundreds, no, but in the dozens, yes. And Medic One or Medic Two will be there, every time. And you…you personally will be there one time out of every four that it happens, trying to prevent it from happening, or standing by and looking at the wreckage afterward. One time in four, Miri…You’re going to do five hundred calls a year, here. You will see a dozen people die or you will be with them soon afterward. The math, as it always does, rules…

She blew out a loud breath, a troubled expression on her face.

…And now, Miri, I get to ask you a question.

She laughed.

And that is?…

What’s a word that I am never going to use in a regular conversation?

What?…That’s a goofy question!…How do I know? I’ve known you for, what, fifteen…twenty minutes, kind of?

He regarded her, expressionless, a hand on the cabinet door.

…But I guess you want an answer, right?…I don’t know…How about, penguin?

Penguin?

Yeah, you know, flightless bird…eats fish. Dapper looking, but kind of chunky…and stinky…Like the fish it eats…Penguin.

And you’re sure that I’m never going to use that word – penguin – in a regular conversation?

Well, how do I know?!…OK…How about, blue penguin?

He shrugged.

OK. Two words. ‘Blue penguin’ it is.

He returned his attention to the cabinet.

What?!…What is it, Marsh?

He looked back at her.

On this job you never know when something, someone from your past may come back in a bad way. Or when someone you’ve just met will decide to take things very south. Miri, if you ever hear me say ‘blue penguin’ to you while we are on a call – it’s already gone way south. You stop, drop, and if necessary, you roll to the door. You clear the bases, with no questions. You make tracks. Get out and count heads. Especially mine. Got it?

Sure. Now I get it…The PUFF-OH phrase.

PUFF-OH phrase?

Oh, come on Marsh…You haven’t heard that one?…Pack up and flock off?

Oh, right. PUFF-OH. But Miri, you don’t pack up when you hear ‘blue penguin’ from me. You just flock right off. Preferably with me in sight. Failing that, with you dragging me by the collar. Leave the gear and get out with me. Got it?

Sure. Got it. Leave the kit and make for the door.

Good. And by the way, always keep something from the kit at hand.

For?…

To use in self-defence, if needed.

He returned his attention to the locker.

Wow, Marsh! You sure have a solid way of explaining things. Makes me feel warm and fuzzy for the job, all over.

Yeah, I’ve heard that before. As your fire captains probably said a million times during your EMT-P ride-alongs, you always have to know when to get out of Dodge. But, according to me…

He looked at her squarely.

…it’s more important that you always know HOW to get out of Dodge.

Miri was nodding. Marshall had turned away as he took out a Motorola portable radio, turned it on, and checked the battery charge before handing the unit to her.

Four thousand taxpayer bucks, smart-GPS equipped, encryption bank, digital signature. Does everything but the dishes. Don’t drop it in the toilet or leave it on the back bumper of the rig or on the landing skid of a chopper. That’s all been done before. At least twice. You won’t impress anyone. Believe me…The radio spiel is too complicated for right now – lots of ops and tactical channels. We have banks of ’em – including RCMP and Parks Canada channels. In the hospital, we stay on Tac-One so that we can talk to each other if a call comes in when we’re apart. Or if you’re across the street getting an iced latté or steamed fig juice, or whatever. Tac-One also nets the 911 calls, but to reply to the dispatcher, you have to switch over to Ops-One.

So, tac is radio-to-radio, and ops is through a tower or repeater?

That’s right. It’s a microwave relay in this case. Same as in almost every other service. But sometimes in the backcountry, ops is channelled through a 1950s-type gizmo on a mountain top that’s never been climbed, and powered by a tapped-out car battery that’s topped up by an iced-over solar panel and a troop of starving hamsters on a spinning wheel. It all kind of works except when the hamsters get hungry and eat the wiring, or the solar shorts out. Which is most of the time, and especially when you need to call out. We pack a satellite phone for those times. It usually works. Especially if the last crew kept it charged. There’s one sat phone in each rig, and it will clip to your duty belt. You also get a shirt-collar microphone and a charger…

She was chuckling as he handed them to her.

"…You laugh, now,