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  My mother cut in. “If she had the help, she wouldn’t need to become a civil servant.” Her lip curled on her last words, and her censure cut at and confused me. I knew that EMTs weren’t the same as doctors by any stretch of the imagination, but they did work that mattered, and wasn’t that what she’d always wanted for me, for Elena? Besides, judges were civil servants too.

  I so wanted to disappear under the table, but Nina squeezed my hand. I stared at the tablecloth instead.

  “But, Tía,” she said mildly back to my mom, “Tori has a good plan.”

  Kerry’s voice cut across the resulting silence. “You could help her out, though, so she wouldn’t have to do such a menial job.”

  “Tori’s sitting right here—why don’t you ask her what she wants?” Nina asked coolly.

  Thankfully, dinner arrived and everyone was spared—my gut told me this conversation would turn ugly real fast.

  Sometime during dinner, Nina whispered intensely, her eyes shading a deeper blue from the gray, “Tori, you know if I can help, I will, right? You’re my favorite little sister.”

  *

  Though more talking and dancing followed, other artists who’d either performed or attended made some little speeches, and I chatted politely and danced with everyone I was supposed to, the fun of the evening was dead for me, and I grabbed another drink whenever I could.

  I admit, I hardly remember the ride home, although I do remember that Samantha reminded me that if I was ever in a jam, to call them, either one of them.

  To be honest, I don’t even know how I got into the apartment, because I was pretty wasted and way tired, but that changed in moments after I stripped and got into bed and Kerry crawled between my legs to blow me again.

  It was nice, very nice, but I really needed to just fuck, and besides, I wanted Kerry to get off too. I stopped her before I came and decided it was time to play. Since as far as I could remember, my regular setup was in her bag, I reached over into the night table for something else—something we could share. I wanted to feel it and I was ready enough for this; it slid into me easily before I flipped us over and plowed into my girl. It was a hot, easy glide, but after the rhythm set, all I could think was that I had nowhere near accomplished what Nina had and no way was I going to ask for help.

  I’d forgotten Kerry was there until her nails bit into my ass and I not only remembered she was under me, I remembered what she had said about Nina: “We used to fuck.” God. That look on her face as she said it. The words played over and over in my head. Dammit.

  I took Kerry’s hands and stretched her arms back over her head. “So tell me,” I curved the arc of my hips so my cock would rub along her clit as I pounded into her, “did she fuck you good?”

  Kerry’s head tossed as her body arched under me, her pussy smashing into mine. I worked her cunt over as her heels dug into my lower back.

  “Uh…yeah…” she growled, her fingertips clutching at my hands. “What, Tori?” Her breath was a hot gasp in my ear. She was such a hot fuck I almost forgot—but I didn’t.

  “Nina,” I breathed as my cunt tightened around the dick we both rode, “she fuck you good?”

  Kerry’s legs squeezed around my waist as she tried to pull me deeper. She gripped my hands desperately and bit my neck before she spoke again.

  “Not like you, Tori,” she gasped, “so shut up…” Her body surged under me and I felt the answering pressure build in my cunt. “Shut up and fuck me.”

  I let go of her hands to grasp her shoulders and dig deep into the fuck, into her, and her nails raked along my spine.

  “I’m gonna come,” I groaned, gasping also as I drilled into her, a pure power fuck driven by the spasms that gripped my cunt. “Coming inside you.”

  “Shit, baby,” Kerry huffed out, her body rocking furiously against me, “me too.”

  I don’t know. I mean, we came together, and she was as warm and sweet as she always was after, and I enjoyed, truly enjoyed, the feel of the woman I lived with, the woman I’d just fucked and made come and who’d made me come repeatedly, held closely, skin to skin, her head on my shoulder. But even though I murmured the right words and we exchanged the ritual tender caresses, I lay awake for a long time, eyes open in the dark, as I held her and she slept peacefully.

  *

  We had a practical exam as well as a written coming up soon, but I’d decided not to stress too much. I studied a lot, and besides, maybe the class was doing something to my brain; it was certainly doing something to Kerry. She’d started to go off on me about our lack of time together, especially since the party.

  Things were…strange, and maybe we did need more time, so I cut a few classes here and there, or simply left early. Maybe Kerry was right; between day classes, work, and the EMT training one or two nights a week, perhaps we did need some more “together.” I wanted us to work. I wanted Kerry to feel secure with me, in me.

  When Bob, the head instructor, asked Roy, Bennie, me, and a few others out of our class of one hundred some-odd to attend and participate in the disaster-preparedness drill, I knew I would go, for two reasons: One of our instructors, a paramedic called Roe, hinted that Bob chose the people for the drills specifically so they could get some “real time” and meet the people they’d eventually work with—and these were the people that Bob would eventually recommend for instructor training. Also, Bob himself, the former Navy Seal who had returned from Vietnam to be one of the first to form this tribe I was trying to join, had taken me to the side.

  When he’d caught up with me in the quad during a break, he’d asked in his warm, yet brusque manner, “Tori, what gives?”

  “What do you mean—did I fail my last practical?” I asked, alarmed. I mean, I knew I’d skipped classes, but I really was on top of my stuff—at least I thought I was.

  “Nah, your grades are fine, but where you been, kid? Problem at home or something?”

  His voice held a hard sympathy I respected.

  “It’s under control.” I nodded shortly in reply, relieved my grades were fine.

  “Okay, kid,” he patted my shoulder and stared out across the quad for a few seconds, “because I want you here.” He caught my eyes. “If you’ve got a, a situation, tell me about it, okay?” He gave me a quick smile that for whatever reason made me feel good, like he was a friend.

  “I’ll be here,” I smiled back, “and I’ll be at the drill site on Saturday.”

  “Good,” he said, “now throw an old firefighter a smoke.”

  We lit up and chatted about different medical and trauma scenarios, some technical details of rope rescue, and interesting calls he’d had until it was time for the second half of the lecture. With a pat on the shoulder as we walked in, he advised, “Just remember: Improvise. Adapt. Overcome. No matter what, you’ll get through every situation.”

  After two hours learning to do exactly that—makeshift splints, creative adaptations of found materials for litters, immobilization, and recovery-rescue—came the announcement.

  “I want you to bring a windshield punch and a utility knife,” Bob said to our small group after class as he handed us a paper with the address of the supply store. “Pick them up before the exercise on Saturday.”

  I looked forward to it, was even happy about it until I pulled into my parking spot. Kerry. Dammit. I was relatively certain Kerry wasn’t going to be thrilled, but she surprised me when I told her.

  “I completely understand,” she said.

  “Really? I mean, as soon as I get back, we can go do something, you know? It’s just that Bob said—”

  Kerry shushed me with a kiss. “Don’t worry. When is it and when will you be home?”

  I kissed her, then told her all the details, and while I thought that smile might have been just the slightest bit forced, I was glad she wasn’t angry.

  *

  The morning dawned sunny and bright, a perfect Indian summer day, ideal for being outside and working up a sweat, and I was careful not to wak
e Kerry as I grabbed my belt and equipment. Bob had said we might get a chance to play rescuer too, and I didn’t want to be unprepared.

  The mock disaster site was in the middle of a field located behind South Beach Psych, the local mental hospital, which was itself right behind University Hospital-North, one of the largest hospitals on Staten Island. I found a parking space and tramped down the dirt track in the field. As I got closer, I saw Bob, who waved me over.

  “Yo, Scotty!” he called. “Come on and get moulage!”

  I waved back and hustled, wondering what in the world “moulage” was. I soon found out. Two long tables held an assortment of bandages and rubbery plastic things that on closer inspection turned out to be burns, wounds, and protruding body parts like bowels and eyeballs. Lisa, Bob’s wife, sat in a chair with a paintbrush and a cup of red liquid. My classmate Bennie sat in front of her, getting made up as an accident victim.

  “Oh, hey!” She smiled up at me from her chair as Lisa painted carefully along her forearm.

  I closely examined the plastic parts that were glued to her skin and guessed, “Radius-ulna fracture?” judging from the two sharp sticks that jutted out at odd angles.

  “Needs more drip,” Lisa commented almost to herself. “Hey there, Tori.” She gave me a friendly glance, then focused on her art again.

  “Okay,” she said, finally satisfied, “you’re in car six.”

  Bennie obediently got up and picked a path through the high grass to the next field. “See ya later, Scotty!” She waved, her ponytail flying over her shoulder as she marched through the underbrush to her site. I watched as her pocket mask smacked against her thigh where it hung from her hip-slung belt.

  “Welcome to moulage.” Lisa gestured to the now-empty seat before her with a hand full of red paint. “Next victim. Tori?”

  I shrugged. “So…what am I going to be?”

  “Ah,” Lisa drawled, and pulled a slip of paper out of an inner jacket pocket, “you…will be an unconscious, facedown, backseat immobilization case—you’re gonna lie between the benches and…” she continued reading, “your special surprise will be”—and she looked up at me—“a sucking chest wound.”

  When she was done with the magic of moulage, I was the walking wounded, complete with facial bruises and red stains on my shirt, a screwdriver stuck to it to re-create the puncture, and a little slip of paper pinned to it that described my presenting vital signs. I walked to my site, car five.

  “Okay,” Jack, one of our many practical session instructors, said when I arrived, “you get in the back here and…” He explained what was supposed to happen as I squeezed into an old Ford Escort. As I slid along the threadbare carpeting and settled on my side, I was relieved there was no glass on the floor. The hump in the middle of the floor dug into my ribs, and I adjusted my gear belt so that nothing would jab me or get in the way of the immobilization techniques our rescuers might employ.

  Feet popped in the window opposite my head as my favorite study pal Roy joined me; he was a passenger who’d been thrown from the backseat over the front, head resting on the dash.

  “Hi, Scotty!” he said, his voice muffled as he stuck himself in place.

  “Hey, Roy! How do you feel?”

  “I feel snug!” he singsonged, and we both laughed from our uncomfortable positions in the car. Although it felt like longer, in five minutes, at most, we heard voices.

  “They’re in here!” a male voice called. Within seconds, someone reached in over my head and cradled my skull with their fingertips to stabilize my neck while someone else smashed through the back window. On a three count they rolled my body as a single unit an inch or so forward until they could place a long backboard behind me.

  A collar slipped in place around my neck, and one by one, I felt the three straps that would attach me to the board—the first around my shoulders, the next around my waist, and the third around my thighs. My head was firmly affixed to the board and my neck locked in place, then I heard the crew give another three count before they pulled me out of the car.

  Now they could examine my hidden injury; one of them took my actual vitals and checked what they were supposed to be on the paper. They administered oxygen (and it smelled like the inside of a vitamin bottle), stabilized the impaling instrument in place, and quickly semi-sealed an occlusive bandage with a flap over the supposed wound. The crew carried me on the board to a reviewing station, where the lead rescuer presented his findings.

  There the reviewers scrutinized every aspect of the operation, from the snugness and stability of my head and neck, as well as the security of my attachment to the board, and reiterated the proper steps—airway first, always, then breathing. A patient with no airway and no respiration—well, it doesn’t matter how competently they’re bandaged and packaged if they’re dead.

  They also asked me if the rescuers were too rough, or if any had talked to me, introduced themselves, taken a moment to explain what was going on—medical and rescue care wasn’t just the physical but the emotional too, or at least, that’s what they were trying to teach.

  Once the review was complete, I was released from the long board, free to visit the other sites and view the other rescues, including the much-anticipated demonstration of the Jaws of Life—a hydraulic-powered sort of pliers. But instead of merely cutting things, it could either slice right through the steel of a car rooftop or spread out a crushed-in door. That thing was amazing—and we demolished three cars while we reviewed its functions. Bob even threw me and Roy and Bennie leather work gloves so we got to handle it too. It was heavy and made me feel as if my very marrow was shaking to jelly, but was it ever cool.

  “Nice toy, hey, kids?” Bob said as we rotated so others could learn how to use it too.

  Strange. As much as we were enjoying ourselves and kidding around about playthings as well as learning how to use them, everyone undoubtedly knew how extremely vital this piece of technology was and what a difference it could make in saving lives.

  Still, even with seven different scenarios and three cars to practice on with the fire department’s new equipment, we were done early, and I was happier than I thought I’d be when Bob invited me and Roy and Bennie to join his team for lunch.

  In full gore, we went to Mike’s Place, a Greek diner (with no Greeks—go figure) not too far away. The staff was accustomed to the sight of the mangled and the medical eating together, and I got a plate of french fries with cheese to munch on while I soaked up the atmosphere and the banter that flowed around me. Every now and again, I’d catch Roy’s or Bennie’s eye, and we’d exchange these how-the-hell-did-I-get-to-sit-here glances.

  *

  But even with the fun and the jokes, it was finally time to go home, and I was two hours earlier than I’d expected to be. That was great, because maybe I’d be able to make the missing time up to Kerry—she’d been so understanding.

  I was in a great mood by the time I rolled into my parking space. The day was ahead of me, and I had the beginnings of a plan—maybe a trip to Manhattan, wander about the Village, then grab dinner in Little Italy.

  After rounding the steps two at a time, I stripped off my jacket and hung it on the hook right outside the door, then keyed the lock to the apartment. I was so excited about what we could do and the fun we’d have, I was already there in my head.

  The shower was running as I hummed to myself down the hallway, and I figured I might as well wash off the moulage. “Hey, baby,” I shouted over the sound of the water as I stepped into the bathroom and reached for the soap, then turned the taps.

  “Oh, hey, baby,” rang out lightly behind me as she stuck her head out of the shower.

  Whoa—that wasn’t Kerry’s voice.

  I snapped my head around and gaped at a woman, a soaking wet and naked brunette, whose eyes widened as she caught sight of me.

  “Aaahhh!” she screamed, a bloodcurdling pitch that made me wince.

  And then I realized—I was still in moulage.


  “No, no, it’s just makeup, see?” I assured the scared, naked woman and popped off the occlusive dressing. Wait, who the fuck was this, and why the fuck was I trying to explain anything to her?

  I needed answers and I wanted them now, as I felt my mind lock into a blank state, a logical state. First thing: where was Kerry? I stepped out of the bathroom just in time to meet her as she came running down the hall, wearing nothing but a T-shirt. Correction: my T-shirt. My favorite Ramones T-shirt with the presidential seal on it.

  “Oh, my God!” she screamed. “What…what did you do to her?”

  “Moulage,” I answered shortly, “it’s just fucking makeup.”

  “Makeup? Fuckin’ makeup?” she spluttered. “It looks like someone died.”

  I took a quick glance at my shirt—she was right. “Glad I dressed appropriately,” I told her flatly, then ignored her as I pushed past her into the bedroom. I don’t know what I was thinking, if I’d meant to grab a new shirt or what, but I heard our “guest” in the hallway.

  “I think I should go.” Her voice rebounded against the walls.

  “I think you should go too!” I called back as I ripped through a drawer searching for a new shirt. God, I didn’t know how I felt. My brain was icy, numb, a numbness that tingled through my chest and made my fingers feel cold.

  “She can stay!” Kerry yelled back. “At least she has a real job.”

  That did it for me. That was so unfair, just so wrong. I stood there a moment, not knowing what to do, breathing in and out while the ice instantly transmuted into heat, creating a steam that fogged my brain.

  I don’t know what I’d thought I was going to do before, but I knew I couldn’t stay, not like this, not with my brain bleeding the way my shirt mocked.