“Seriously?”
“I need to see how many times you were stung and if the stingers are still in you. Just do it, Dalton. Please.”
“Well, since you said ‘please.’ First time, I might add.” He got out, moving slow, keeping a grip on the top of the doorframe for balance.
She stood beside him, cell phone in hand. “Take off your shirt.”
He gave that sideways grin. “Now you’re talking.”
“Stop fooling around, Dalton! I need to see if you’re all right!”
He took off his shirt.
Using the flashlight on her phone, she saw two red swollen spots on his forehead, five more on his neck and shoulders, and at least six on his arms and hands. Thirteen, minimum. Three of them had stingers in them, two of which still had venom sacs attached. She would have to get those off before they popped and released more venom. Reaching into the car, she found her wallet and pulled out a credit card. “I’ll try to be gentle, but this may hurt.”
“I thought that was my line.”
“You’re being an asshole and I don’t appreciate it. Now stand still!”
He stood still.
She carefully scraped off the stingers with the edge of the card, checked the others again to make certain she hadn’t missed any, then told him to put his shirt back on and get in the car.
“If I’ll be good, can I sit up front? There’s bug guts in back.”
She ignored him, slid behind the wheel, and shifted into drive.
He climbed into the passenger seat, shirt on but unbuttoned. She thought his face looked pale, but it was hard to tell in the glare of the interior lights. He took a deep breath and let it out. It seemed labored, but she wasn’t sure.
“You having any trouble breathing?” she asked.
“No, but my tongue feels fat.”
“Buckle up.” She hit the gas, fishtailing and flinging gravel as the tires dug in. As soon as the car reached pavement, she put her phone in the dash cradle, punched 911, and turned on her hazard lights.
The operator’s voice blasted through the car speakers. “911, what is your emergency?”
“The guy with me was stung by at least thirteen yellow jacket wasps. I think he’s going into shock.”
“I’m not going into shock.”
Raney shushed him and told the operator that he didn’t know if he was allergic to bees but she had given him two Benadryl anyway. She added that his neck was a little swollen, he was slightly dizzy and said his tongue felt fat.
“What is your location?” the operator asked.
“Heading down Highway 6, a few miles south of the I-20 turnoff. We’re in a 2016 dark blue Expedition—I don’t remember the plate number—and I have the flashers on.” She glanced at the display map. “Gorman is the next town. Are there any EMTs there? Or a clinic or doctor?”
The operator said she’d dispatch an ambulance to the Shell station on her approach into town and for Raney to please stay on the line.
“I’m not going into shock,” Dalton said again. “I’ve been there and this isn’t it.”
“I hope not.” Raney slowed for a turn, then stepped on the gas again when the road straightened. The steering wheel bounced in her hands as the car shimmied and rocked over the uneven surface, the big motor roaring.
He laid his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes. “Hell of a first date.”
“It’s not a date.”
“Road trip.”
“It’s a rescue mission. That’s all.”
“Hell of a rescue mission, then.” The words were slow, almost mumbled.
Terrified, she shot him a glance. His mouth was open, slightly slack. “Are you going to sleep? Or passing out?”
He didn’t open his eyes. “I’m fine. Watch the road.” The places on his face and neck were now the size of marbles. The hand resting on his thigh looked swollen, the long fingers puffy.
Raney focused on her driving, eyes burning, fear clogging her throat. How could someone so strong die of a wasp sting? That familiar, stomach-churning sense of helplessness pressed against her chest. It was Daddy all over again.
“I’ve got you on my screen, ma’am,” the 911 operator said. “How’s he doing?”
“The swelling’s worse. He’s breathing okay, but he may be passing out.”
“I’m not passing out. I’m just afraid to watch.”
“You should be approaching the Shell station,” the operator said. “There’s an ambulance waiting.”
“I see it.” First, the Shell sign, high up on a tall pole, then below it, flashing red lights. “I’m coming up on it now.”
“Then I’ll be hanging up, ma’am. Good luck.”
Raney moved her foot from the gas to the brake and pressed hard. In a swirl of dust, the Expedition came to a sliding stop ten feet short of the ambulance.
Thank you, God.
Her hand shook so much it was an effort to get the gear lever into park and punch the ignition button on the dash. As soon as the motor died, two men in blue uniforms pushed a gurney loaded with medical cases toward the car. After hitting the power button to unlock the doors, she slumped back into the seat, so relieved she was almost light-headed. “Dalton, wake up. The EMTs are here.”
“Not asleep.” His head rolled toward her. His forehead was so distorted with swelling he looked like Quasimodo. He lifted his head off the headrest and studied her. “Are you crying?”
“I never cry.”
“Sweetheart, it’s okay. I’m fine.”
Before she could tell him to stop calling her sweetheart, the door beside him opened, and the EMTs took over.
They didn’t use the gurney, but let Dalton sit in the car while they pumped him full of epinephrine, checked his vitals, put him on oxygen as a precaution, and gave him something for pain and to reduce inflammation.
Within minutes, Dalton sank into a drug-induced doze.
While he slept, the EMT with TOM stenciled on his shirt checked all the places Dalton had been stung. Gouging, pressing, poking. Dalton never flinched.
The other EMT, Roger, came around to Raney’s window to ask her questions while he filled out various forms. Probably trying to distract
