Michael Reyneke : Writer

We get the 911 call at 17:23.

Gail, our dispatcher, signals to Gary and me to get ready while she scribbles the details. She uses a notepad to pass on instructions and record the calls. She puts down the phone and glides her wheelchair to where we stand, ready with our emergency gear.

“Car and motorcycle collision on Zig-Zag road. Caller panicking, shouting dead people,” Gail says and passes me the note. Zig-Zag Road is notorious for blind bends and accidents.

“Gary, drive with care. When we get there,” I say, switching on the siren and flashers as we leave the hospital grounds. You take the bike, I’ll take the car,” I ask.

We arrive at the scene and stop the ambulance close but not blocking the road. A quick look around, I see chaos. A motorcycle smashed head-on into a small car. I move to the driver’s side of the wreck. The door is hanging open, and a young woman is crushed in the front seat. Her head, shoulder, and one hand are all I can see.

“Hi, my name is Tracey. I’m the paramedic who’s come to help you,” I say, but I can’t smile. I look at her, and my heart pounds in my throat. I try, “What is your name?”

She does not answer; her dark eyes stare at me. I study her face. In contrast to her now pale complexion, her lips are bright red, and her lipstick is applied to perfection. The look is symmetrical and beautiful.

She talks to me.

“Please pass my mobile. I must call my friend.” I couldn’t find her phone, so I passed her mine. Her red lips trembled. She couldn’t make the call.

She whispers, “Hold me.” There’s no space, so I rest my hand on her shoulder. I’m with her in death.