The Vines by Shelley Nolden (most motivational books .txt) 📗

N-95 mask and gloves that must have come from her messenger bag, she retrieved the kit, handed it to Rollie, and returned to her post outside. “Please don’t let him die,” she said, sobbing. “Please.”

“He needs a transfusion. We’ve got to get him to a hospital before . . .” His father’s voice trailed off.

Finn could tell his brother wouldn’t make it that far.

Seconds Later

lood covered Finn’s hands. No matter how much pressure he applied, it continued to slip past his fingers, pooling around Kristian’s large intestine. “Hurry! I can’t stop it!”

“Let him concentrate,” Cora said from the doorway, her hands raking its concrete frame.

Seemingly oblivious to both, Rollie continued suturing a severed artery in Kristian’s abdominal cavity.

Fighting off a wave of nausea at the sight of his brother’s innards and the warm, wet sensation of so much blood, Finn gritted his teeth, willing his father to work faster.

“Almost ready.” Rollie tied off the stitch and rethreaded the needle. “I need to get where you are. Switch to one hand, and apply more pressure.”

While pressing firmly, Finn shifted to give his dad more space. He leaned over to make eye contact with his brother, and a tear landed on the inside of his face shield, directly above Kristian’s cheek.

“Stay with me. Milo needs you; Hannah needs you; Mom needs you.” Only minutes earlier, he’d threatened to kill Kristian. Now Finn wished he could take it back. “I need you.”

Kristian’s pupils seemed to lock onto Finn, then his eyes rolled back into his head.

A memory pushed through Finn’s panic, at the movies, sharing popcorn with Kristian while watching Terminator 2. He’d been too young for the R-rated film, so Kristian had sneaked him in. So many times, Kristian had been the big brother that every younger brother wished he had. Finn blinked back hot tears.

He cuffed the side of Kristian’s hood. “You can’t die now, not before paying me back for that kick to the balls. You hear me?”

The sound of Kristian’s labored breathing through the respirator dimmed to a barely audible gasping.

“No!” Finn shouted. “Don’t you dare give up!”

“Is he breathing?” Cora asked, her usually gritty voice now laced with shrapnel.

Finn put his ear to the side of Kristian’s face shield. “Barely.”

“He’s lost too much blood,” Rollie said without looking up. “He’s not going to make it.”

Cora wailed, and the desperate sound ended in a series of racking coughs, barely muffled by her surgical mask. With one hand clutching the door frame and the other pressed to her chest, she began hyperventilating.

Her entire body swayed.

Finn feared that she might collapse, but neither he nor his father could leave Kristian.

“Wait.” Finn sat up. “What’s my blood type? Is it the same?” “No.” Rollie grabbed another suture thread. “If it were, you’d already have a needle in your arm.”

“Cora,” Kristian stammered so feebly, Finn thought he might have imagined it. He brought his head closer to his brother’s visor but Kristian’s lips didn’t move again.

Why had Kristian mentioned her? Finn glanced at Cora, whose wheezing had become interlaced with appeals to God, and back to his brother. And why was she so emotional, so desperate for him to survive?

Kristian’s eyes had closed, his head slumped to one side. No! “He’s unconscious.”

Rollie checked his pulse. “He needs CPR,” he said, rising on his knees. “Move.”

Finn scrambled out of the way, and Rollie removed his hood and then Kristian’s.

“CPR means he’s not breathing?” Cora asked quietly from the doorway. “My God!” her voice rose to a wail. “He’s dead!”

“Not yet. Keep praying.” Rollie began chest compressions.

“He asked for her. For Cora,” Finn said in disbelief. “Why would he?”

“He did?” Cora asked in a shrill tone. “He needs me. Let me go to him.”

“No,” Rollie said without breaking his rhythm. “He was referring to your blood.” He gave Kristian two breaths and resumed the compressions. “You’re O positive. A universal donor, just like him.”

“We’re a match,” she whispered, gazing into her cupped palm, then fisted her hand. “It’s the only way,” she said, looking straight at Rollie as she crossed the threshold. He returned her stare while continuing to count.

Finn’s heart raced. “No way. Cora cannot be his donor. She’ll kill him!”

Cora pushed the N-95 mask against her face. “Finn’s right. It’s too dangerous.”

“He’ll die for certain if we don’t,” Rollie said, winded from his effort.

She fidgeted with the tips of her latex gloves. “What if—”

“We’ll figure it out later. If he makes it.” Rollie dropped his head to expel air into Kristian’s mouth.

“Are you crazy?” Finn jumped to his feet. “This is murder. Her pathogens. He’ll never . . .” Even as he said it, he knew there was no alternative.

“Finn’s right. Rollie, I can’t do this.” Cora tugged at her crucifix pendant. “If it doesn’t work, I’ll have killed my—”

“I need tubing and IV needles. Where’s Lily? We can’t wait for her. There might be some in this mess. Start looking.” Rollie listened for Kristian’s breathing. “I’ve stabilized him, for now. Hurry.”

Cora’s eyes flashed with hope. “He might make it?”

“Only with your blood.” Rollie rifled through the fragments within reach.

She dropped to the ground behind the toppled examining table to search for the needed supplies.

Still shocked by the plan and Cora’s willingness, Finn tried to focus on the immediate task. He spotted a handful of white packets beside the overturned cart and crawled over to them, his slick gloves leaving behind red streaks. In the dim light, he strained to read one of their labels: gauze. Continuing his search, he turned toward Cora and the upended table.

“I found tubing,” she called out and tossed the package to Rollie.

Finn shuffled closer to her. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because,” she said, furrowing her brow, “I have to.”

“This is your chance to be rid of him.” Just voicing the notion sickened him, yet he needed to understand. “If he makes it, he’ll never leave you alone.”

“The pain will be worse if he dies.”

“This was my fault,” Finn said, choking on the words. “You don’t