The ambulance-bay doors hissed apart. A man staggered in. Face contorted in panic, hand on his throat, he croaked, “I can’t breathe!”
Not true, I thought dimly. Here you are, shouting at us.
Victoria, the triage nurse, hustled him into the trauma slot. More nurses swarmed.
“You’ll be OK,” I said.
Eyes wide, he dropped his hand. He was thin and sinewy, so I expected him to sport a prominent Adam’s apple. Instead, he uncovered a sickly blue mound. I reached to feel it, but he jerked back.
