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"Nah, fine," she says, standing. "You'll be okay," she assures me with a smile, her eyes wistful. That time she met Angela Daniels cut short….

"What's your name?" she asks as she steps out. "You new?"

"Martin," he tells her. "Yeah, just started. I'm with the 856."

Fiona huffs her annoyance but heads toward the building. Martin climbs into the back of the ambulance, his gaze only skimming me, and then he turns and slams the door shut.

Suddenly, it's just me and this strange man in a tight, alien space. He comes closer, seeming to suck up the air, as he settles himself onto the chair where Fiona was sitting and picks up my chart, his eyes scanning over it. The engine rumbles to life, making everything hum.

ChapterSixteen

It's cold.The gurney under me is hard through the thin mattress. The tools and medications vibrate in their cabinets, as if rattling a request to be released. The stark light defies the night darkening the only window—a black oval above Martin’s head.

He sits across from me, his short auburn hair dewed with raindrops. Pale brown eyes dart behind his glasses. The man’s shoulders are hunched forward, almost protective.

The posture strikes me as strange. This guy is strong, really strong. The broad expanse of his chest seems like it should be pushed out in the peacock fashion of most gym enthusiasts. A tingling awareness leeches the pain from my body, filling me with a nervous, flighty energy.

"If you just lie back," he says, still not looking at me, "I'll get an IV started."

"I'd rather sit up." My voice is raspy, throat raw from breathing in all that smoke.

"I'm sorry, but it's regulation. You have to be lying down if we're moving."

But, of course, we are already moving. A hysterical laugh bubbles up in my smoke-ravaged throat. "I understand," I say, forcing my tone to be soft. I need to sound weak, not on the edge of my sanity. "I'm just too frightened to lie down right now. That was so..."

My gaze traces the space as if I'm searching for words, but really, I'm looking for something, anything I can use to defend myself.

My eyes slide from the intercom on the wall behind his head, to the tinted white cabinet faces on either side of his chair. They leap to the equipment for monitoring vital signs over my right shoulder, down to my hands briefly, then over my left shoulder to the tinted cabinets labeled in red with things like Maternity Kit, Burn Pack…

"You're in good hands," he promises me. "Now, I just need you to lie back."

There is a syringe in his hand. How did he get it? I didn't see him remove it from any of the cabinets.

I shake my head, wordless. Fear rushes through me.

The skin at the corner of his mouth tightens. "Please," he says, frustration edging into his voice.

He's bad at acting. The thought rings through my mind like a bell. This man is pretending to be an EMT, and he's not good at it.

The ambulance turns, then accelerates. The siren starts up, adding a layer of sound so thick that Martin, or whatever his real name is, has to raise his voice to ask me again to lie down.

"No," I say. It comes out loud and sure. I am not lying the fuck down.

He leans forward like he couldn't hear my answer. His free hand, the one not holding the needle, shoots out and grabs my injured one.

Shit, shit, shit.

I yank away from him, but he doesn't let go. Instead, he just falls forward with me. The scent of body odor and sweat fills my nose. I kick wildly, crazed now.

He grunts as my knee connects with his ribs. I twist my arm, pulling against his thumb, breaking his hold, and scramble away. I half crawl, half fall off the end of the gurney, catching myself on the closed doors.

I twist around to face him, my knees bent, hair falling into my eyes. He stands to face me. We sway in unison, shifting weight to stay balanced.

The ambulance takes a left, and we both are thrown to the right. His thick thigh leans into the cot I just evacuated. I trip until I hit the wall, grabbing onto one of the cabinet handles.

He rights himself and takes a step toward me—one more, and he'll have me cornered. Sweat beads his upper lip, victory shines in his eyes. He's big and armed. I can't win.

I grapple with the cabinet my hand is on, ripping it open, rifling through it. Plastic-wrapped tools tumble out, crashing onto the ambulance floor.