The Blood of Strangers
Chapter One
THE UNKNOWN ASSAILANT
ONE WAS MIDDLE-AGED, BALDING, THE OTHER YOUNG, OVERWEIGHT,
and both men screamed as they rolled in on the gurneys.
We had no warning on the radio at all. The paramedics
were urgent, moving quickly and breathing hard. Multiple gunshot
wounds, they said, with unstable vital signs. They didn't
have time to call it in; it was too close, they were too busy.
I took the young one. He lay soaked in sweat, with a blue-red
hole in his neck. "I can't move my feet," he yelled, over and.
over. "I can't move my feet."
The volume of his shouts was like a physical force in the
small space. We hung blood immediately—deep red, the icy
drops tumbling into him as he grew quiet, and his face settled
into the mottled blue mask I'd seen so often in that room.
On the X ray clipped to the board, the bullet appeared
magnified, white against the grays of his chest, just under his
heart. As we ran to the operating room, the gurney humming
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