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She dialed 911, explained what her injuries were and that they weren't immediately life threatening. The operator assured her that a paramedic team was on its way.
Missy hung up after giving the operator her address so she could keep pressure on her wrist as it was the cut that was bleeding the most profusely. Her finger stung and her wrist and foot throbbed. Her foot was bleeding enough to form a small puddle on the linoleum floor. Despite the amount of blood, it didn't feel very deep and she hoped she wouldn't have to have stitches. She couldn't afford a hospital bill.
She had to wait about five minutes. She managed to get upright without using her hands and awkwardly hopped to the door to the garage, taking her right hand off her wrist long enough to open it and reach out to press the button that opened the garage door. The hand towel was soaked through at the spot over the cut. She hobbled to her bar stools just as she heard sirens coming down the street and saw flashing red lights on her walls as they got closer. The sirens stopped when they got to her driveway and she heard a diesel motor pull in.
The two paramedics came directly through her garage and to the kitchen door. The first one she recognized as one of the few married men in the neighborhood. She didn't think he was as devotedly married as some of the other couples though. He was very short for a man, only 5'4". His black hair and dark eyes and complexion proclaimed his Hispanic heritage. She might have dated him anyway but for the fact that she didn't date men shorter than she was.
Her eyes widened as she saw the second man walk in. She knew Wayne was a paramedic but knowing something in the abstract and seeing the reality walking in her kitchen door were two different things. He was almost a total contrast in appearance to his partner. His strawberry-blond hair, grey eyes, and pale skin practically screamed classic European ancestry. He was also several inches taller.
"Hey, neighbor," he said with a smile. "What's going on tonight?"
"I didn't do it on purpose," she said quickly. "I was just trying to cut up some chicken for supper. I wasn't paying attention and cut my finger." She held it up so they could see. "It startled me. I jerked the knife back but the end of the blade sliced across my inner wrist. I think it hit a vein. I dropped the knife then and it fell, blade down onto my foot. It cut my instep. I couldn't take care of anything except stopping my wrist from bleeding out."
Both men laughed at that. "Most people who try to kill themselves usually do a better job," said the Hispanic guy. "Let's see what happened."
Missy stretched out her left arm for him to examine as Wayne kneeled to inspect her foot. They both worked efficiently but she could tell the subtle difference in their touch. The Hispanic guy, who she heard Wayne call Jose, was impersonal. She could tell he thought of her as just another patient. Wayne's touch was just as efficient but it felt almost like a caress. His fingers lingered just a second longer than his partner's.
They opened the blue bag they'd brought in with them. It looked like a square duffel bag with big pockets on three sides. The top and one whole side unzipped to reveal all kinds of medical paraphernalia that she had no name for. She recognized plastic tubing that was probably used for IV's. She also recognized packets and rolls of gauze when the men took them out and started bandaging her cuts.
"You shouldn't need stitches," Jose startled her by saying. "Would you like to go to the hospital to be checked out?"
"No, I don't think so," she told him. "I can't afford an ER visit."
"Then I'll need your signature on this form," Wayne said. He stood up and handed her a clipboard with a paper clipped to it and a blue gel pen. "I don't think you'll have any scars. If you do they'll be small. When was your last tetanus shot?"
"I'm not too worried about scars," she said as she took the clipboard and pen.