Flame Out Read Online Free

our left, the too-modern state towers on our right. “Was your dad trying to teach him a good work ethic?”
    â€œYes, but also . . . Mom worked the nights at Sleep-Tite, and my Dad didn’t like to leave her waiting after her shift. He was worried she’d get bored, and when that happened, she’d wreck her life just to watch it crash. He was right. That last time she took off, she left from work. Went on a bender somewhere, stole Aunt Natalya’s car, and hit the road.” He pulled into the parking lot of St. Peter’s Hospital, rolled down his window, and punched a button. A ticket popped out. Dave tucked it in his visor. “I guess I hate Sleep-Tite a little, too.”
    I tensed up as we walked through the halls of St. Peter’s. I’d managed to avoid hospitals during the end stages of Kevin’s illness. Before things became hopeless, my husband’s days were filled with a constant array of doctor’s appointments: oncologists, pulmonary specialists, pain specialists, and all of the diagnostic machinery, MRI’s, X-rays, blood tests—the list was endless.
    We arrived at the burn unit, a sign on the door instructing us to report to the nurses’ station. Once there, we explained to a nurse in all-white scrubs who we were and why we were visiting.
    â€œI paged Gayle. That’s her patient,” he said. “I assume you’ll want to see the patient?”
    â€œFor a few questions.”
    He handed us paper scrubs, shoe guards, and a cap. “Go on. Put these on.”
    A nurse in her mid-fifties rushed out of one of the rooms. She too wore the white scrubs of the rest of the nurses on the floor, and her crocs squeaked with every step.
    â€œHere about our mystery patient?” she asked.
    I reached under my scrubs to pull out my badge.
    â€œLike I couldn’t tell you were cops from down the hall,” she said. “How can we help you?”
    â€œThe burn victim’s in a lot of pain. We know that,” I said. “But we need to ask her a few questions.”
    â€œWe’ve barely gotten her stabilized. Her blood pressure’s still all over the place—”
    â€œOne question,” Dave said. “Her name.”
    â€œShe’s unconscious,” Gayle said. “Has been since she got here.”
    â€œCompromising her health is the last thing we want,” I said. “But could you maybe roll back some of the meds? We need to wake her up for one minute, get her name, maybe who to contact.”
    A light went on over one of the patient’s doors, followed by a low ping.
    â€œDan, can you answer that call?” Gayle said.
    The young man agreed, pulling on a cap and tying on a face mask as he hurried to the patient.
    â€œLook,” Gayle says, “this isn’t some sort of medically induced coma. Yes, she’s on pain meds, but the deal is, her body decided to shut down all nonessential functions. Burn shock. All of her skin, including the surface of her lungs, is struggling to heal right now, and we’re pumping her with fluids without swamping her lungs and drowning her. She might wake up—”
    â€œA picture,” I say. “Can we take a picture of her in case we get any missing persons reports?”
    Gayle considered. “That’d be OK, I guess.”
    The victim lay on the single bed, her lips pale under the ventilator, her hair gone. The visible skin glistened, slathered in lotion meant to replace some of the moisture she was losing. She lay naked under a tent, a gauzy fabric draped a foot off her body. That said, she looked surprisingly good, the injuries no worse than a bad sunburn, blisters streaking across her face.
    â€œYou get them out of crisis and clean off soot and ash, they start looking a little healthier. Systemically, though . . . skin’s one of our biggest organs, and burns like this, it’s like she got stabbed in the kidneys,” Gayle