Gently, he takes the baby. His face tightens at the sight of her. Without speaking he moves her farther from the mobile home and drops to his knees. He lays the child on the ground and checks for a brachial pulse. He glances up, shakes his head at a second paramedic approaching. Then, using two middle fingers, he begins rapid chest compressions. “How long has she been quiet?” he asks me, without stopping.
“A minute,” I say. “Maybe two. At first she was crying and then…”
Thirty compressions, and he sets his hand beneath the infant’s neck, pinches her nostrils. Sealing a tiny rescue mask over the infant’s mouth, he gives two short breaths.
The second firefighter reaches us, a stretcher in one hand, an AED kit—a defibrillator—in the other. He drops to his knees beside the first responder, opens the kit, removes the pads. “I need her dry,” he says, yanking a paper sheet from the kit.
Quickly, he dries the child. The other paramedic tugs off the infant’s onesie. I see a tiny torso. Blue-tinged skin. Unmoving arms and legs. Vaguely, I’m aware of the woman screaming from somewhere nearby. Of sirens and the incessant blare of the tornado warning system. There are a hundred other things I should be doing; there’s a gas leak and downed power lines and undoubtedly more casualties. But I can’t move. I can’t look away from that baby and the two men working to save her life.
The second paramedic removes two electrode pads from the kit, placing one on the infant’s chest, the other on the baby’s back, sealing them tightly against the skin. All the while a mechanical voice from the AED intones instructions. “Analyzing rhythm. Stand clear. Shock advised.”
“Kate.”
Tomasetti’s voice reaches me as if through a fog. I feel his hand on my arm. I want to say something. Let him know I’m okay. I can handle this. I want to reassure the mother, take her hand and tell her the child is going to be all right. But I don’t know if any of that is true. Despite our efforts, I don’t know if the baby is going to make it.
Vaguely, I’m aware of my phone vibrating against my hip. Tomasetti pulling me away from the paramedics. “Let them work,” he tells me.
Finally, I look at him. Even in the midst of all this chaos, I realize, his worry is for me. Illogical anger burgeons in my chest. I want to rail, tell him this isn’t about me. My small world and petty emotions and discomforts don’t matter. The only thing that matters is a tiny heart that’s stopped and a young life that must not be lost.
Around us several more responders arrive. Men in pickup trucks who are volunteers for the fire department. I hear shouting. Voices filled with urgency and stress. Orders being given. A second ambulance pulls up, and two more paramedics disembark. Twenty yards away, a large truck with the electric company logo emblazoned on the door pulls up to a downed telephone pole where a transformer crackles and pops. In the midst of it all, I can still feel the echo of warmth where the tiny body was pressed against me.
“Kate.”
I turn my attention to Tomasetti, blink at him, pull myself back.
“I just heard from Glock,” he tells me. “The Maple Crest Subdivision got hit, too.”
In the back of my mind a little voice demands to know, Isn’t this enough? “Casualties?” I ask, instead.
“He didn’t know. Plenty of damage, though.”
“Shit.” My phone has been vibrating nonstop. I yank it out and snap my name.
“Chief!”
It’s Chuck “Skid” Skidmore, one of my other officers. He’s usually the cocky one, the one who always seems to find some smidgen of inappropriate humor in just about any situation, no matter how dire. Alarm rings hard in his voice. “I got power lines on top of a vehicle out here on Hogpath Road. A woman with a bunch of kids inside.”
“You call the power company?”
“They’re on the way.”
“Keep them in the vehicle, Skid. Tell them to roll up the windows. Don’t get too close.”
“Roger that.”
I end the call and look down at my phone to see I have six messages and a dozen texts. I reach for calm, force my emotions back. Two of the calls are from dispatch, so I press the speed dial for Lois. “You okay?” I begin.
“I’m good.” But she’s breathless and sounds stressed. “Power’s out everywhere. Pickles started that generator, so we got radio and phones and both are going nuts.” She takes a deep breath, blows it out slowly. “You heard about Maple Crest?”
“I’m heading that way now,” I tell her. “Any word on casualties?”
“I checked with Pomerene a few minutes ago. They have two critical. One fatality. More coming in and lots of minor injuries.” A hysterical laugh bubbles up from her. “I just took a ten-fifty-four a half a mile south of town.”
The code 10-54 is for loose livestock on the road, a call I always take seriously due to the likelihood of a motor vehicle accident. “Dispatch Pickles.”
“Ten-four.”
“I’m ten-seventy-six Maple Crest.”
“Roger that.”
I end the call and take a deep breath. I look at Tomasetti. Behind him I see the ambulance with the baby inside pull onto the road, sirens blaring. I don’t let myself think about the tiny newborn I’d held in my arms just minutes ago. The one whose warmth I can still discern. The one who, of all of us, is an innocent and deserves to live.