Then we both quiet and watch a redhead simultaneously sprint and gawk at Maximoff. Completely not paying attention to her feet. Like slow motion, her ankle catches on a tree root. She collapses hard with a loud thunk.
Maximoff saw the whole thing. And of course, he’s the first one sprinting to the girl. I already grab the first-aid bag.
“Akara to Farrow. You’re the closest with first aid. Doesn’t look bad enough for a real doctor.”
I roll my eyes and click my mic, mid-jog. “I am a doctor.” I have an MD.
While I slow down to the girl and Maximoff, Donnelly has to chime in, “Anyone else think it’s strange he only reminds us that he’s a doctor when we say he’s not a doctor? Any other time, he’s the one telling us he can’t prescribe medicine. Can’t work in a hospital. Can’t—”
I swivel my radio’s knob. Cutting him off in my ear. I squat down beside the girl. She clutches her ankle, wincing.
Maximoff is knelt close. Me and him exchange one look in brisk greeting.
“Hey, sweetie,” I say to the girl. “What’s your name?”
“Ella.” She winces through her teeth.
Maximoff says to me, “I think it’s just a sprain,”
I tilt my head. “And what year did you graduate medical school?”
“What year did you finish that residency?”
“Still better than you.”
He gives me a middle finger and a few cameras flash. #HMCCampAway has been trending on Twitter all day. Maximoff even has a link on his profile page to donate to One More Day.
I focus on Ella. She came down on her hands, then head. “Are you dizzy?”
“A little.”
I slide the first-aid bag to Maximoff who is dying to do something. He’s such a fixer. “Find an ice pack.”
I inspect her ankle: reddened skin, not a lot of swelling. I press a few fingers on the area. “Does this hurt?” I ask, but she’s already shoving my hands away.
Then she bemoans like I stabbed her throat.
Okay.
I’ve seen my fair share of dramatics. I can discern what’s real and what’s bullshit. She turns toward Maximoff. “I can’t…” She tries to produce tears that don’t come.
“You’re going to be okay,” he assures her. He wraps his arm around her shoulders in a side-hug. Then he hands me the soft ice pack.
I don’t even touch the pack to her ankle before she winces.
“On a scale of one to ten,” I ask, “what’s your pain like?”
“Nine point five.”
Okay. Sure. I felt enough of the area to know the bone’s intact.
Maximoff looks seriously concerned. “Maybe we should just be safe and call an ambulance—”
“No, no, no.” She raises her hands. “Really, it’s not that bad. I could…walk on it…or try to.”
I place the ice pack in her hand. “Use this for your head. I can wrap your ankle, and we can find you crutches if you need them. How about that?”
She nods vigorously. Then bites her lip at Maximoff. “Would you…could you stay with me for a bit?”
My brows spike.
“Of course,” Maximoff says, sincere and offering another side-hug. I dig through the bag for a wrap, and then I glance up.
In earshot next to a drink station, a group of white guys in their early twenties talk shit about Jane. She’s chatting to a few girls further in the forest.
“Jane Cobalt is disgusting,” a guy says. His familiar angular face and aquiline nose sparks my memory. The red-marked sheet of possible threats. He’s on it. His name is Tyler.
“She wants to get banged so badly. It’s kind of pathetic.”
“I’d fuck her. But I’d have to tie her down first.”
They laugh.
My nose flares, jaw tight.
Maximoff is busy listening to Ella, but his cheekbones are sharpening. He hears.
I glare at them as I search through the first-aid bag.
“The BDSM shit is such a lie,” a blond says. He’s also on the sheet. Brad. “Anytime she gets shoved in this capture the flag game, she practically has an orgasm. Just watch her.”
Fuck you.
Oscar starts approaching the guys. He clicks his mic. “These yellow T-shirt twats need to be watched. I’m going to keep an eye on ‘em.”
I turn my head and whisper into my mic so Ella can’t hear. “Give them a fuck you from me.”
“We’re all thinking it,” Oscar says.
I rip plastic off a wrap and return to the girl. “How are you feeling, Ella?” I ask before I touch her ankle.
She shrugs uncertainly.
Maximoff drops his arm off her shoulders. That was odd for him.
I set the wrap down and near him, my hand on his bicep. “Maximoff?”
He palms his collar, rubs his throat, struggling to breathe—and I know.
He’s going into anaphylactic shock. I rapidly dig through the first-aid bag while he wheezes, the sound very close to someone being choked to death.
His throat is swelling closed.
He tries to say my name.
“You’re okay. Stay calm,” I tell him like I’m at complete ease. No care in the world.
Where’s your fucking EpiPen? I touch my mic. “Get me an EpiPen.” It’s not in this bag.
“Oh my God, Maximoff?!” Ella almost clutches onto him, but I gently push her back. Maximoff grasps the back of my neck. His head hung, his sporadic breaths cut off short.
“You’re okay.”
He’s not okay. I react calmly in any medical crisis, even when I know the person. Even when my heart wants to lodge in my throat. I swallow it down, and I have one mind that says, fix this. Help him.
Help him.
Do not leave him.
I can’t leave him. In the distance, Quinn sprints urgently towards us with an EpiPen.
“He’s allergic to fire ants!” Ella yells at me.
“I know.” I cup his jaw. His narrowed eyes are determined to breathe when he can’t. He tries to open his mouth for air.
If I could give him mine, I would.
I would in a fucking second—but his passageway is closing, tongue swelling. His blood pressure is dropping, his heart rate slowing. CPR solves nothing.
He needs epinephrine.
I should’ve had an EpiPen on me. It’s the first week of December. We both thought there wouldn’t be any fire ants.
His face reddens. He wheezes, eyes watering. I tighten my grip on his jaw. “I’m here. You’re okay.”
Maximoff wears no fear. He’s just fighting his body to stay conscious.
“He’s going to die!” she screams and bursts into tears.
“No he’s not.” I stare right at Maximoff. “You’re not dying on me, wolf scout.” I promised you.
Maximoff can’t breathe anymore, close to passing out.
Quinn drops the EpiPen on my lap. I bite off the cap and stab Maximoff’s thigh. I hear the click. A spring-loaded needle pierces through his clothing.
And he gasps a lungful of air. Like he’s breaching the surface of a pool after almost drowning.
I hold the pen in place for ten seconds.
He tries to speak.
“Don’t talk,” I say and click my mic. “Akara, we need to call an ambulance. His vitals need to be checked at the ER.” And I need to find where he was bitten.
Maximoff doesn’t argue. For once.
Really, that just concerns me more.
36
FARROW KEENE
THE MEDICS CHECK his vitals on the ambulance before driving off the property, and I find a small, reddened bite on the back of his neck. After they clear him, he jumps off the ambulance and returns to today’s schedule. Barely missing a thing.