Emt Quotes

I have three words for you," EMT Guy said. "Possible internal bleeding." I turned back to him. "Don't you think if I was bleeding internally, I'd know somewhere deep inside? Like, internally?

At the end of the hall stood a walnut door with a bronze plaque: ASCLEPIUS MD, DMD, DME, DC, DVS, FAAN, OMG, EMT, TTYL, FRCP, ME, IOU, OD, OT, PHARMD, BAMF, RN, PHD, INC., SMH There may have been more acronyms in the list, but by that point Leo's brain had exploded.

Ambulances were cool. “You just want to fondle my extraneous body parts,” I said to the EMT as I picked up a silver gadget that looked disturbingly like an alien orifice probe, broke it, then promptly put it back, hoping it wouldn’t leave someone’s life hanging in the balance because the EMT couldn’t alien-probe his orifices.

We really should get some X-rays,” the EMT said. “You just want to fondle my extraneous body parts,” I said to the EMT.

At the ed of the hall stood a walnut door with a bronze plaque: ASCLEPIUS MD, DMD, DME, DC, DVS, FAAN, OMG, EMT, TTYL, FRCP, ME, IOU, OD, OT, PHARMD, BAMF, RN, PHD, INC., SMH There may have been more acronyms in the list, but by that point Leo's brain had exploded.

A uniform cordoned off the area with crime scene tape. The M.E. pulled in and parked. There were two EMT trucks idling at the edge of the lot. I’d stayed close to the back door, and one of the Rangeman guys had taken a position two feet from me, standing at parade rest. No doubt in my mind he’d take a bullet for me rather than face Ranger over a dead Stephanie.

It worried him. Like him, she had to be exhausted. She smelled like gasoline; her clothes were torn. She had a small white bandage on her forehead where the EMT had cleaned her cut. Dirt smudged her face, her arms, her legs. He knew she still didn't have any underwear, and for the first time, he felt bad about it. Real bad. He wanted to protect her, make her feel secure, keep her from harm—and all he'd done was lose her underwear and practically get her blown up.

I met Elvis in your woods one night,” Terry said. One of the EMTs had given him a shot, and I thought it was beginning to work. “I knew I was nuts then. He was telling me how much he liked cats. I told him I was a dog person, myself.

I have three words for you,” EMT Guy said. “Possible internal bleeding.” I turned back to him. “Don’t you think if I was bleeding internally, I’d know somewhere deep inside? Like, internally?

I'm telling you this because you didn't ask. I've got it all here, growing like a tumor in my throat. I'm telling you because if I don't, I will choke on it. Everybody knows what happened, but nobody asks. And Elvis the EMT doesn't count because when he asked, he didn't even listen to me answer because he was listening to my sister's heart not beat with his stethoscope. I want to tell. It's mine to tell. Even if you didn't ask, you have to hear it.

It wasn’t Dean’s fault,” Allie insists. “Seriously, it’s all on me. I freaked out for no reason.” She finally looks over at me. “See? This is why I don’t like horror movies! You watch one scary movie when you’re a kid and suddenly everyone who comes to your door is a serial killer.” “Are you kidding me right now? You’ll watch a horror movie with my sister but not me? We have to watch the cancer movie?” “Dicky,” Summer chides. “You’re being grumpy.” I glare at my sister with enough force to make her wince. “Not one word out of you,” I snap. “And don’t think I didn’t feel you kick me right before I passed out. Who does that, Summer? Who kicks a man when he’s down?” From the corner of my eye, I see Tucker sink to the floor. He buries his face in his hands, shaking with laughter. The EMT blocks my line of sight by squatting in front of me. “I need to examine you for a concussion.” Oh for fuck’s sake.

So the Hottest EMT in the World is named Ash. Makes sense. He sets panties on fire.

With a soft gasp from Aaron, the soundtrack started up in Joey’s brain again. Goldfrapp’s “Ooh La La” was perfect for blow jobs. If he sang along, his tongue did interesting things.

We really should get some X-rays,” the EMT said to Uncle Bob as I lounged on the stretcher. Ambulances were cool. “You just want to fondle my extraneous body parts,” I said to the EMT as I picked up a silver gadget that looked disturbingly like an alien orifice probe, broke it, then promptly put it back, hoping it wouldn’t leave someone’s life hanging in the balance because the EMT couldn’t alien-probe his orifices.

The Golden Tits of America!” Jason Rapsis cried from the shotgun seat. Rob had worked with any number of paramedics over his fifteen years as an EMT, and Jace Rapsis was the best: easygoing when nothing was happening, unflappable and sharply focused when everything was happening at once. “We shall be fed! God bless capitalism! Pull in, pull in!

Burnout occurs when an individual has experienced prolonged demands, chronic stress, fatigue, a lack of support, and a decrease satisfaction in what they are doing.

Self-care is essential to combating burnout.

Counted among those killed in the World Trade Center of September 11, 2001, were forty-three paramedics and EMTs. Godspeed.

Goodness and courage are how the divine presents itself so often—whether in drag, as close friends, or as EMTs.

You don't mind if I take a picture of this guy with my cell phone, do you? I need to prove he's dead.' 'Knock yourself out,' Morelli said. 'Last time an FTA of yours went dead you asked the EMTs to drive him to the courthouse.' 'There's a lot of paperwork when the FTA is dead,' I said. 'It's easier when you can have him show up in court.

Self-awareness is an essential ingredient in preventing or combating "burnout.

It has been a year of chaos, confusion, and complete madness.

Focus on areas of your life that bring you peace.

Remember that positive self-talk is an intrinsic part of a healthy mind.

Empowerment is giving someone the authority, or the power, to prove triumphant.

Be certain to limit your exposure to negative people and environments.

You are driving home. You listen to ‘Tongue Tied’ by Grouplove. Someone side-swipes the Ferrari. You almost strike three pedestrians and crash into a Dunkin’ Donuts. This is somewhere near the Brooklyn Bridge and you find out—later—the lady who hit you, she died. She was old. “Wasn’t wearing her glasses,” someone on the street says. “She was basically driving blind,” the police officer says. “I’m surprised this didn’t happen earlier.” An EMT examines you. You try and act normal. “Am I hurt?” you ask. “You’re not hurt,” the EMT says. You talk to the cops. “Am I in trouble?” you ask. “You’re not in trouble,” a young cop says. You freak out a little. You can smell pomade in your sweat. “Everything is under control,” someone says—another police officer. You freak out some more.

Be a complex person. The more ways you define yourself, the less vulnerable you are to setbacks in any area. If you’re only a writer, and your book doesn’t sell, you’re sunk. But if you’re a writer and researcher and a teacher and a wife and mother and gardener and volunteer EMT and singer in the choir, it’s easier to bounce back from disappointments. The more sources of joy and pleasure in your life, the better.

Sam Temple was taken by helicopter to a hospital in Los Angeles, where there were specialists there in burn injuries. He wasn’t consulted: he was found on his knees, obviously in shock, extensively burned. EMTs took over. Astrid Ellison was taken to a hospital in Santa Barbara, as was Diana Ladris. Other kids were shared out among half a dozen hospitals. Some specialized in plastic surgery, others in the effects of starvation. Over the next week all were seen by psychiatrists once their immediate physical injuries were addressed. Lots of psychiatrists. And when they weren’t being seen by psychiatrists, they were being seen by FBI agents, and California Highway Patrol investigators, and lawyers from the district attorney’s office. The consensus seemed to be that a number of the Perdido survivors, as they were now known, would be prosecuted for crimes ranging from simple assault to murder. First on that list was Sam Temple.

This was the secret I learned that day: None of them want to be saved. They all want to sink backward toward the earth again, to be swallowed by the ground, to keep sleeping. There is hatred on their faces when they are roused from the dead. It’s a look I’ve seen dozens of times, now, on the job: standing over the shoulder of some poor EMT whose job it is to reel them back in from the other side. It was the look on Kacey’s face that day as her eyes opened, as she cursed, as she wept. It was directed at me.

Maybe I . . . shouldn’t tell him what I thought I’d heard. Not until I knew more. How exactly would I put the revelation anyway? Jack’s alive, but apparently he kept that little detail secret. Ah, but Matthew spilled the beans! Buying myself time, I waved Aric on. I was scarcely listening as he began talking about Paul, of all people. How the EMT had grown worried when I’d been shut in with my grandmother for so long. How I had lost weight and become listless. The man had pleaded with me to get a checkup, even offering to source contraception after Aric and I had started sleeping together. Wait. I glanced up. “After?” Aric nodded. “He said you told him you had no need of contraception.” The hell? “I went to him and got a shot prior to us getting together. I told you about it.” “As I told him in turn, but he swears that never happened.” Real? Unreal? Had I . . . imagined my meeting with Paul? I’d already feared gaps in my memory; Gran had told me things that I’d had no recollection of. Was I now inventing memories? Had I invented Jack’s return? In a soothing voice, Aric said, “I’m not angry, love. Just talk to me.” He wasn’t the first person to look at me as if I’d gone insane, like I was trouble with the possibility of rubble. Won’t be the last. No. I refused this. I had heard Jack, and I had gotten that shot. “It did happen, which means Paul’s a liar.” But why would he lie? “I’m going to confront him.” In time. Right now, all I wanted was to hear from Matthew again. Yet I frowned as a thought occurred. “Why would you be talking to Paul about contraception?” Aric tucked my hair behind my ear. “Sievā,” he said gently, “do you not know you’re pregnant?” Tick-tock.

Code Blue! We’re losing him!” The EMTs hustled the gurney containing Erik Dawson’s broken body into the operating room where the surgical team waited. The nursing staff literally ripped his clothes off as they worked to stabilize him. “What do we have here?” the lead surgeon asked. His assistant didn’t bother to look up as she answered, “Auto accident. An eighteen- wheeler smashed his car into a guardrail.” The lead surgeon whistled through his teeth. “It’s a miracle he’s still breathing. Let’s keep him that way.” As the surgical team moved into action with skill born of practice, Erik drifted on the fringes of consciousness. Erik’s thoughts raced. What? Where? Anesthesia put him under, but as the doctors began their work and his parents prayed fervently in the waiting room, Erik spasmed and stopped breathing. Family Matters, from Home Again

Well, it’s not swollen,” he stated, rewrapping the bandage, “or bleeding or leaking, so I think it’s okay.” “I know. I’m training to be a nurse,” I replied. “Thanks though.” “Explains the curiosity and attitude.” “What?” I snapped. “I’m a trainee paramedic.” “Oh.” I looked away, chewing my lower lip. “Right.” “There’s a sense of rivalry between Emergency Medical Technicians, paramedics, and nurses—I don’t know the reason behind it.” “I know.

EMTs learned to love brave patients--they weren't nearly such a pain in the ass as the whiners--but not to trust them. In the name of courage, they would hide symptoms, not ask for help when there was help hovering around them anxious to give them succor...

Hey what?' Tyson said. 'Why? What do you need a gurney for?' 'Standard procedure,' the EMT said. 'What do you mean, standard procedure?' Tyson said. 'She's fine. She's hardly bleeding, see?' Hardly bleeding? Her bandage was soaked through. 'Suicide watch,' the EMT said curtly. 'Someone who tries to kill herself isn't "fine."' She strapped Starrla to the gurney. Starrla's skirt rode too high, and Wren, ridiculously, wanted to fix it for her. She didn't know how to fix things, though. She didn't know how to fix anything.

Their resumés read like a fat stack of adventure porn: While Kreek brought the muscle and hard-core athleticism, Hanssen had rowed the North Atlantic, canoed the Rio Grande and biked across Australia; Pukonen had cycled the U.S. Pacific coast and paddle-boarded across the Georgia Strait; and Fleming had worked as a wilderness EMT and dropped bombs for avalanche control. Their internal compasses are all calibrated a little differently, magnetically drawn toward the life-shaping adventures most people admire from the couch, and steadied by the confidence that they could handle anything.

EMTs have a reputation for being adrenaline junkies, hardened to the job, and they see a lot: people dead from sudden heart attacks, gunshot victims with clothing covered in blood, accidental overdoses by the young. The adrenaline rush is good, I imagine, and the ability to stay calm when all external signals are screaming “panic!” must be gratifying, too. The pulseless body, the crying wife, could become intoxicating; called in daily to traverse the border between life and death. Licensed to save. But that kind of grind could wear on a person because there would be many times when the patient couldn’t be rescued. It’s

He looked up, expecting to see a couple of EMTs bearing down on him with a stretcher, but his heart stuttered when the crowd shifted and Celida appeared. She stopped dead when she saw him, both hands flying up to cover her mouth and nose. Then she dropped her hands and raced toward him, dark ponytail streaming behind her. He watched her face crumple a second before she reached him and a different kind of pain lit up in his chest. Beat up as he was, there was no way he couldn’t reach for her. He held out his

The theater’s stilted, matter-of-fact air makes me capable of clear thought. Ewan McGregor’s feckless, loose kindness reminds me of my brother, though in this moment everything does. I remember Tom’s wedding to Sara Something, when I was twenty-nine and he was thirty-two. He overdosed, survived. His tuxedo shirt slit down the middle by the EMTs, the pulsing of his blood over his chest. I wasn’t nice about it. It came at the end of years of unanswered messages, sudden criticisms, distracted tones. I left him at the hospital, ate vanilla wafers in my parked car. After that we didn’t speak. Ewan McGregor finds himself, when on the precipice of connection, lacking. He does what he thinks is his best.

you wanted to be a part of it, didn’t you?

We have a problem, Lieutenant.” Taylor started to sit, and Delores tsk’ed at her. Taylor raised an eyebrow and sat anyway, crossing her arms across her chest. The Oompa was still forced to look up at her, maliciousness sparking in her eyes. Power hungry bitch, Taylor thought. “And what problem would that be?” “I’ve been looking over the reports on the Harris suicide. According to the EMT report on Michelle Harris, there was a chance her life could have been saved. Instead, you and your boyfriend interrogated the suspect, allowed her to continue drinking. Is this true?” “Let me see. Yes, we interrogated her. It’s called solving a case. As for whether she would have died or not, only God can tell us that.” “So you’ve imbued yourself with the power of God now?” “Captain Norris, what do you want? I’m tired. The cases are closed. Satisfactorily to all involved, I must say.” “I have a choice to make, Lieutenant. Seeing as there is yet another complaint against you, I could suspend you pending the outcome of the investigation into your actions.” “You’re kidding me. I’ve done nothing wrong.

Rose shouts at Xander to stay inside my uterus. Connor coaches me to breathe. Ryke talks to an EMT. Daisy sets a reindeer-shaped sugar cookie on my belly.

At the end of the hall stood a walnut door with a bronze plaque: ASCLEPIUS MD, DMD, DME, DC, DVS, FAAN, OMG, EMT, TTYL, FRCP, ME, IOU, OD, OT, PHARMD, BAMF, RN, PHD, INC., SMH There may have been more acronyms in the list, but by that point Leo’s brain had exploded.

Michael Meoli was a Navy SEAL Command Fitness Leader as well as a civilian ACE/ACSM Personal Trainer. He retired in 2013 as a Navy SEAL Operator Chief and Advanced Tactical Practitioner. Until 2018, he was a paramedic and firefighter, serving as a certified tactical paramedic for the San Diego Police Department SWAT team and with San Diego Fire Rescue. Mr. Meoli is an EMT-P, NAEMT-AF, and TP-C.

Michael Meoli, EMT-P, TP-C, NAEMT-AF, is the CEO of Tactical Rescue Options. The company provides instruction, direct support, and consultation throughout the country and beyond. He retired as a firefighter and paramedic in 2018 from the San Diego Fire Rescue. He was a certified tactical paramedic for San Diego Police Department SWAT as well as other government teams. Mr. Meoli has his teaching credentials in the state of California.

a call went out over the radio that a fellow officer had collapsed. That officer was Brian Sicknick. EMTs administered CPR on the floor of the Capitol building, but the hospital listed him in critical condition upon his arrival. He suffered two strokes in succession in the aftermath of fighting to save the Capitol. Officer Sicknick died the following day, January 7, 2021. He was 42 years old.

Our struggle is against a system where the top twenty-five hedge fund managers in the United States pocket more money than 350,000 kindergarten teachers combined. When did we the people make that determination? When did we decide that a drug company executive at Moderna can collect a “golden parachute” valued at $926 million for not working, while EMT workers who work around the clock to save lives make as little as $40,000 a year?

Years ago, I represented a client, a firefighter/paramedic, in an administrative trial after he had been terminated for allegedly providing patient care that was below the department’s established standards. One central issue was the ongoing, on-the-job training firefighters/paramedics receive. Throughout the trial, senior officers of the department, including the Chief himself, preached and bloviated on and on about how the department is committed to providing only the best patient care and how their paramedics are held to a higher standard; how they are committed to serving the community with the highest level of blah, blah, blah. On cross examination, however, I asked each of them about how many hours a day each provider spends drilling or practicing firefighting technique and equipment. Each of them answered proudly that every firefighter/EMT and firefighter/paramedic, regardless of assignment, spends at least three hours each day practicing firefighting skills and/or rehearsing the use of various firefighting equipment; hoses, ladders, saws, and other firefighter equipment. Ok, that’s great. Through testimony, we determined that, based on a 10-shift work month, each firefighter/paramedic, regardless of assignment, spends at least 30 hours per month drilling, practicing, and/or rehearsing firefighting skills & equipment. That’s at a minimum of 360 hours per year of ongoing, on-the-job firefighter training. Outstanding. When the smoke is showing and the flames are roiling, they will be ready. They all displayed the same proud grin at how well trained their people are. For each of them, however, that smug grin quickly turned when I then asked about the number of hours per day each firefighter/paramedic spends drilling on or practicing patient care related techniques, skills, and tools. Every one of them squirmed as they responded with the truth that the department only offers three hours of patient care related education per month. That’s roughly a maximum of 36 hours of paramedic training for the entire year. It got worse when further testimony showed that patient care related calls account for more than 80 percent of their call volume and fire related calls less than 20 percent, I could see each of them deflate on the witness stand when I asked how they could truthfully say they were committed to providing the best patient care when barely 10 percent of their training addresses patient care, which constitutes over 80 percent of your department’s calls. The answers were more disjointed and nonsensical than a White House press briefing. Of course, across America the 10:1 ratio of ongoing firefighting training to EMS training is pretty consistent, which begs the question: Don’t they get it? Excellence is the product of practice. How can any rational person look at a 10:1 training ratio and declare themselves committed to the highest level of care? How can an agency neglect training on the most significant aspect of the business and then be surprised when issues of negligence and liability arise? Once again, it seems that old-school culture leaves EMS stuck in the mud and the law is not going to wait for agencies to figure out that living in the past compromises the future.

Shawn was crying. “The bitch didn’t even fucking stop.” “Keep it together,” Javier said calmly. “Look at me, Shawn. He’s a patient. He can be your buddy when this call is over. Right now he’s a patient. Do your job and he’ll be okay.” Shawn nodded, trying to collect himself. Javier snapped the cervical collar on Brandon’s neck and we all put our hands on him, ready to flip him. “On the count of three,” Javier said, not looking up, sweat beading on his forehead. “One, two, three!” And in one fluid motion we turned him onto the backboard. Brandon always wore heavy-duty pants when he rode. But he was in a T-shirt. It was eighty today. His bare left arm was torn to shreds by the asphalt. He looked like he’d been through a lemon zester. Blood oozed from the white streaks of the under layer of his skin. And this was the least of his worries. Shawn, Javier, and an EMT lifted him onto the gurney while I felt his chest and stomach. He had rib fractures and rigidity in his abdomen. “A possible liver laceration,” I said, a lump bolting to my throat. Javier mumbled a curse word, and Shawn shook his head, his eyes red and glassy. We needed to get him to the hospital.

WHEN THE PAIR OF Mongolian EMTs came through the door, I stopped feeling competent and numb. One offered me a tampon, which I knew not to accept, but the realization that of the two of us I had more information stirred a sickening panic in me and I said I needed to throw up. She asked if I was drunk, and I said, offended, “No, I’m upset.” “Cry,” she said. “You just cry, cry, cry.” Her partner bent to insert a thick needle in my forearm and I wondered if it would give me Mongolian AIDS, but I felt unable to do anything but cry, cry, cry. She tried to take the baby from me, and I had an urge to bite her hand. As I lay on a gurney in the back of the ambulance with his body wrapped in a towel on top of my chest, I watched the frozen city flash by the windows. It occurred to me that perhaps I was going to go mad.

Do you have a ballpoint pen?” I breathlessly addressed the EMT standing next to me. He nodded. “Give me your pen, but take the inside part out first. Hurry.

After all, I am not just his protégé. I owe my life to Samuel. I am his one moment of mercy. In one hundred and seventy-two killings, I am the only person he ever saved. The gurney squeaks behind me. I twist around to watch the EMTs rolling out a body covered with a sheet. I turn back to Samuel and he smiles. One hundred and seventy-three.

a ‘zipper kid.’  I encourage you to take the pictures anyway.  Here is a picture I had taken myself, definitely not photographer quality, of Brody with his little oxygen up his nose and the IV up on his head. Within a few hours, the ambulance arrived from Kansas City to transport Brody up to Children’s Mercy.  I was sitting with him when the EMT’s arrived and reluctantly handed him over so they could put him in his new spaceship of a bed to transport him in the ambulance. 

Food allergies are no joking matter. We have a friend who left a Paris restaurant on a gurney because a waiter took it upon himself to interpret her stated Capsicum annuum (bell peppers) allergy as merely an intolerance. Another friend is fatally allergic to Arachis hypogaea (peanuts). Serious allergy sufferers carry epinephrine pens that can inhibit some allergic reactions. They never take risks, because the appearance of EMTs—emergency medical technicians—and a stretcher kills the vibe of any celebration. And any veteran chef who’s seen a severe allergy attack unfold at a party will work in good faith to make damn sure it never happens again. But more and more Americans dress up mild intolerances and preferences for food in allergy drag, perhaps to absolve themselves of the rudeness of expecting to be served a customized plate. Chefs and waiters share stories of such behavior constantly: guests who are “allergic” to dairy until the chocolate pudding comes out for dessert. The “celiac” who needs his first course and second course gluten-free and then asks for a second slice of cake. “It’s every party now,” Robb Garceau, now executive chef at Neuman’s Kitchen, told us. “Guest says: ‘I need a vegan first course!’ So we build a special salad just for her. And then we send her a vegan main. But she’s seen somebody else’s salmon. Captain tells me: ‘She wants the fish course.’ And I’m like: ‘What?! You were vegan half an hour ago!

Horrific injuries were caused to someone who had their feet up on the dash of a car when a collision occurred. When the airbags deployed the patient was folded up like a taco according to the EMT that brought him in.

Read the highlighted part from the EMT report.” Boy threw rocks at officers upon approach. Boy spit at EMT Beckstrom. Became aggressive when approached. Attacked officers. Mother stepped in. Boy tried to bite mother and had to be restrained. I look up after I’ve finished, waiting for him to explain more.

with Cooper and his old EMT buddies—after way too much drinking and Cooper asking him to slow down, only to end up driving him home—Aaron found an invoice tacked to the microwave with a corner of Scotch tape. It was for a storage unit a few blocks from home, taken out under his name with his credit card. She had left a stack of flattened boxes sitting against the wall next to the front door and a sticky note with Doctor Jandreau’s number tucked into his sock drawer. She

Nitroglycerin directly induces vasodilation by relaxing the smooth muscle within the vein forcing it to expand. Rub a very small amount into the skin and let it sit for a few minutes. Research has shown a very small amount of nitroglycerin paste (smaller than a pea) rubbed on the skin will not have any significant systemic effect, even in a hypotensive patient.

The remaining lymph nodes may become damaged if the IV were to get infected or by the meds/fluids running through it. This could result in permanent lymphedema in the affected extremity. Note that this is most common with mastectomies but also applies to any procedure where lymph nodes were removed. If no lymph nodes were removed then it is OK to use the arm even with a mastectomy.

Opt for chlorhexidine gluconate (CHG) over a simple alcohol wipe if you have the choice. CHG wipes have 70% alcohol just like a standard alcohol wipe but they are also infused with 2% chlorhexidine gluconate.

IV is the quickest hangover cure on the planet. Trust me. If you ever feel like you’re dying from a hangover, contact a nurse you know. A medic. An EMT. Anyone who can hook you up with some intravenous cleansing. You feel like a new man. A new man ready to haul around drunks all night.

Can’t you see I’m starving?” asked a very large man in a very loud voice. His words were clipped, desperate and breathless. It was less a question than a demand. Less a shout than a gargle, as though the man spoke through a mouthful of gumballs and old chicken bones. His head was massive; a pregnant watermelon perched neckless atop a VW Bug. His swollen body oozed off the sides of his bed and rippled with aftershocks after each huffed syllable. Two EMT’s in ventilated hazmat suits circumnavigated the obese man like puffy yellow astronauts orbiting a small moon. “Sir, calm down. Please. We’re here to help you.

WOULDN’T LOSE another kid on his watch. If the homecoming queen was out here, he intended to find her. Even if he had to trek through the entire western edge of Glacier National Park, beat every bush, climb every peak. Unless, of course, Romeo had been lying. “How far up the trail did the kid say they were?” Behind him, Gage Watson shined his flashlight against the twisted depths of forest. A champion snowboarder, Gage looked the part with his long dark brown hair held back in a man bun. But he also had keen outdoor instincts and now worked as an EMT on the PEAK Rescue team during the summer. An owl hooted. A screech ricocheted through

I’m afraid of so many things that never used to scare me,” she whispered. “I’m afraid of everything.” “Then you need to stick with me, because in addition to my former careers as an EMT and circus performer, I’m an outstanding dragon slayer. Never met one yet that could defeat me. I gotcha covered, sweetheart.

Everything else I’d done in my life up to this point, like working as an EMT, had been choices that had played to my strengths and hadn’t particularly challenged my weaknesses. This new goal was going to expose every weakness I had.

I hate EMTs. ‘Breathe evenly, Special Agent Garrett.’ ‘Don’t move, Special Agent Garrett.’ ‘Don't worry, Special Agent Garrett, it only feels like we’re removing your arm with a dull hacksaw.

Markowitz’s ideas on stock diversification eventually became known as efficient market theory (EMT). This is the general concept that markets are efficiently pricing securities based on known information, and therefore a market portfolio is the most efficient portfolio.

Alabama was not - and I don't think is - an abortion-friendly state. Remember: Birmingham is where a man made the FBI's Ten Most Wanted list by bombing a Southside abortion clinic, killing a security guard. The bomber's brother was so upset by the manhunt that to protest, he cut off his own hand with a circular saw. And he videotaped it. And then he drove himself to the hospital. EMTs were sent to his house to collect the hand, and a surgeon reattached it. This is Southern Gothic country. Our zealots don't play.

Mac has attention deficit disorder, and like many people with the affliction, he gets calm and laser focused in high-stress situations. That’s why he’s drawn to trading and EMT work.

the boy had killed only eight. The presence of a lone FBI agent only complicated the situation more. What had he been doing there? Eyewitness reports of a brief firefight outside before the massacre only piqued his curiosity. A frenzy of reporters and news cameras had flooded the scene outside, held at bay by tight-lipped crowd control officers. Detective Harper noticed that Darion had failed to upload his video in time. After recovering the busted-up GoPro, he viewed the recording and was met with gruesome scenes of the carnage—death captured in real time. Harper placed it in a sealed evidence bag to be transported to the evidence room with everything else. The detective did a Hail Mary and then tried to get some ID on the shooter. Nothing on the scene directly linked him to a terrorist network. He had no identification on him. Suddenly, Harper heard on his radio that another man, who resembled the diner gunman, had been hit by a truck, not far from the diner. *** Craig tried his best to maintain control of the crash site. He called Patterson repeatedly but only got voicemail instead. A sick feeling brewed in his stomach as he heard sirens blare from a few blocks over. Police were everywhere on the street around him. Paramedics had the driver of the truck—an unconscious white-haired man—on a wheeled stretcher and fitted into a neck-and-shoulder brace. As they pushed him to the ambulance, one EMT held an oxygen pump over the man’s face and pumped intermittently. Rasheed lay in the road unconscious among broken pieces of the truck’s front end and a backpack full of pipe bombs. It was a surreal scene, the second time Craig found himself in the middle of the street amid destruction and chaos in a matter of days. The tide seemed to be turning against him. He forbade investigators to touch the pipe bombs and demanded that the paramedics handle Rasheed with the utmost care.

So. Should I be offended you threw my brother’s face behind your couch?” I wince. “I really hoped you didn’t see that.” “I mean, at least you tossed an ambulance back there to keep him company. The EMTS can dress his wounds if anything happened to his very pretty face.