Chapter 22

The ambulance’s sirens wailed, its red and white lights strobing as it barreled through traffic. “Something’s wrong,” said Clay, gripping Danny’s limp hand.

The woman medic hung a plastic bag of clear fluid from a hook in the van’s ceiling. The ambulance braked, throwing the bald medic into her. “Watch it,” she snapped, bracing her free hand on the ceiling.

The bald medic stepped over the gurney, next to Clay. He strapped a blood pressure cuff on Danny and pumped the cuff. It took a moment before he mouthed the word, “Damn.”

Clay clasped his hands together, bowed his head and closed his eyes. The siren’s wail faded as he turned his thoughts inward. It had been a long time since he’d done this, but it felt right.

All at once he remembered being five years old, praying for a pair of Air Jordan basketball shoes for Christmas. The shoes hadn’t come, but that hadn’t surprised him. “You should pray for others before you pray for yourself,” his Grandpa always said.

With thirty-eight years of life behind him, Clay had to agree. Thinking of himself first hadn’t helped up to this point in his life. But there was still a lot of life to live. It was never too late to change. He clasped his hands and bowed his head.

“I know I haven’t been a good man,” he whispered. “Things in my life haven’t turned out the way I wanted ‘em, and that’s my fault. I know it is. But please don’t let Danny die here tonight ‘cause of what I’ve done. I promise, if you save this man, I’ll be a better man.”

A piece of equipment attached to Danny let out a high-pitched whine. The woman medic pushed on Danny’s chest while the bald medic squirted clear fluid out of the end of a syringe.

“Just do what you can, Lord,” Clay whispered. “Do your best and from now on I’ll do mine.”

A voice broke Clay’s train of thought. It was Danny mumbling while the medics worked on him. Clay pushed in close and put his ear over Danny’s lips.