Chapter 8 - The Flatline
They ripped his t-shirt open, tearing the fabric down the middle.
Sticky electrode pads were slapped across his pale chest.
A portable monitor buzzed to life, displaying a flat, unbroken line.
"No pulse, no spontaneous respirations," the paramedic called out.
"Push epinephrine! Intubate now!"
The second medic pulled a syringe from a black kit and plunged it straight into Leo's thigh.
The lead medic placed a clear mask over Leo's mouth, squeezing a black rubber bag to force oxygen down his throat.
"Come on, kid," the man muttered, squeezing the bag rhythmically.
"Come on."
I sat glued to the rug, incapable of moving, incapable of screaming.
My eyes drifted from the paramedics to the kitchen entryway.
I looked at the top of the refrigerator where I had deliberately hidden his inhaler.
I did this, my mind whispered, cold and absolute.
I locked him out. I drowned out his voice.
"Got a pulse!" the paramedic suddenly yelled.
"It's thready, rate 130! We need to move now!"
They lifted Leo onto a plastic pediatric backboard, strapping his limp limbs down.
He still looked completely lifeless, his skin waxen and pale.
They hoisted the board and ran out the front door toward the flashing red lights.
I scrambled up, stumbling after them into the blinding afternoon heat.
"I'm coming!" I screamed. "I'm his mother!"
"Hop in the front, ma'am," the driver shouted, holding the passenger door open.
I climbed into the high seat of the rig, the smell of diesel and antiseptic hitting my nose.
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Through the small glass window behind me, I watched the medics continue squeezing air into my son's paralyzed lungs.
The heavy doors slammed shut, and the siren screamed into the sky.
