#emts

As Ryan headed out for his third EMT emergency response call for the night, he thought to himself he’d never feel dry ever again.

It was nearly one a.m. A rainstorm was blowing through Amity Park, bringing torrential downpours. Flash flood warnings had been issued and people were asked to stay off the streets, since the rain and the August heat created thick humidity that made visibility low and driving dangerous. Ryan had been an EMT long enough though to know that despite the weather and warnings, people were still going to be out on the roads. 

As he donned his heavy rain jacket, which wasn’t any drier from the last run, he heard the dispatcher over the intercom. 

“20 year old female driver injured. Possible pedestrian injury, mental health crisis. Assumed juvenile teen male.”

Ryan groaned. His mind started going through all the possibilities. Mental health crisis’ were one thing. But when it was a kid…it’d made these calls much harder to get through. If there were parents involved, they could be hysterical, which would make it harder to give the child treatment. Or if the parents weren’t involved, that added an entire different layer of difficulty to wade through. The parents could be substance abusers, neglecting their child over a needle or a pill. Or instead of abusing drugs, they were abusing the child, which would explain why a child would be out in this kind of weather. Arrests would be made, paperwork would have to be filled out, and CPS would be called. Hopefully the child would have family to care for him, but if not, he’d be entered into the foster care system, moving from one home to another and left alone to process the trauma from that night. The child might even already be in the foster care system, and ran away. Ryan has seen a lot of those cases over the years. Either way, this wasn’t going to be an easy night.  

When they arrived, police had already gone to work setting up a detour. Blue and red emergency lights and bright work lights lit up the scene. A car had veered off to the side of the road and struck a telephone pole which had fallen over the sedan. The driver side door was open, its driver sitting with her legs hanging over the side. There was a large gash in her forehead that was being treated by the Firehouse EMTs who had arrived first. To the left of the car, the Firehouse Ambulance sat with its back doors open. A small figure sitting on the gurney inside, wrapped in a blanket. 

A police officer walked up to him. Ryan recognized him and narrowed his eyes. It was Darrel, his least favorite police officer on the force, who was the least compassionate and cared more about how shiny his badge was than any actual good he could be doing. 

Darrel jabbed a thumb towards the driver and started talking, skipping over basic greetings. “Chick over there is a fucking mess. I gotta get a statement from her but I can’t understand her between the sobs and this fucking rain.” He swiped a hand across his face, wiping rainwater out of his eyes. “Can you try talking to the kid? I doubt we’ll get anything out of him though. He’s a little psycho.” 

Darrel didn’t bother to wait for a response and walked away. Ryan watched him walk away, glaring. Of course, Darrel would sum up a traumatized kid as “psycho.” 

Ryan shook off his frustration and headed to the ambulance. A Firehouse EMT saw him approach and hopped out of the vehicle. Ryan glanced at her badge and read her name was Bethany.

“The kid doesn’t appear to have been hit at all,” the Bethany shouted over the rain. “There are no marks anywhere on his body, no bruises or scratches. We scanned his scalps for bumps. Kid seems to be clean. You should probably still get an MRI scan on him at the hospital.”

Ryan peeked around the EMT’s shoulder. The child was wrapped in a thick gray blanket, shaggy black hair hiding his face. He was shivering, despite the hot, humid night.

“What’s his name?” Ryan asked. “Have parents been notified?” 

Bethany shook her head. “He won’t talk. Possible symptoms of shock, but there’s probably something else going on. He was found naked.” 

Ryan grimaced. Again, that could mean any number of things. For now, he would treat the situation as a psychotic breakdown.

“Let me try talking to him,” Ryan offered. “Just me and the kid.” 

Bethany shrugged. “Suit yourself.” She waved to the other EMT sitting in the truck with the kid. “Let us know if you need help.” They walked off to check in with the driver.

Ryan climbed into the ambulance and sat across from the kid. He took a few moments to study him. He was a pale, skinny kid with long limbs. Wide, electric blue eyes stared back at him, and was definitely scared. Ryan put him at around maybe 14 years old.

“Hey there,” The EMT gave a soft smile. “My name is Ryan. I’m here to help. Can you tell me your name?” 

The kid blinked at him, not answering. He continued to shiver at him, hands tucked underneath his arms. He left it open in the center, exposing his naked frame. 

“Here.” Ryan reached on either side of the kid. He recoiled sharply. 

“It’s okay,” Ryan reassured gently, moving slow. “I just want to get you warm.” He folded the blanket over him more tightly. “You can hold on to it if you like.” 

Hesitantly, the boy untucked one of his hands and grasped at the blanket, his knuckles turning white with effort. 

“Better?” 

The boy looked away, and then jerkily nodded.

Ryan leaned back. “Good. Now how about that name?” 

He remained silent. His hand clenched and unclenched at the blanket. Ryan waited, quiet and patient. Rain pounded on the roof of the ambulance above them. From outside, Ryan could hear the broken sobs from the driver.

“H-he c-came out of n-nowhere, I s-s-swear,” the girl wailed. “I promise I wasn’t s-speeding. Oh, god I h-h-HATE driving in the rain at night, my b-boss wouldn’t let me go home early.”

“Miss, take some deep breaths for me, okay?” Darrel said, without a hint of compassion in his tone. “No one is in trouble yet. We’re just trying to figure out what happened.” 

“D-did I hit him? Is he okay? Everything h-happened so f-f-fast,” she stuttered. “Oh, god I’m s-so s-s-sorry.” 

“He is being looked at now by the medical team,” the police officer answered, then added, “He appears to be awake and alert.” 

More sobbing echoed across the street. 

Ryan watched the boy in front him, who still shivered with his head tucked in, breathing quiet rapid breaths. As the silence stretched on, he wondered if the kid was non verbal. He seemed to at least understand English, so he could rule out any kind of language barrier or deafness. 

“Are you in any pain?” Ryan tried again. “Any discomfort anywhere?”

The boy shook his head. 

“What about family? Anyone we can call for you?” 

The boy remained silent. 

Ryan sighed. “Okay, kid. No worries. We’ll get you taken care of.” The kid may not even remember who his family is, if he was indeed having a psychotic episode.

“I’m going to start taking your vitals now,” Ryan stated, pulling out a pulse oximeter. “Can I see your hand?” 

The boy looked up at him. Looked down at the oximeter and back at Ryan, uncertainty etched across his face.

“It doesn’t hurt, I promise.” Ryan demonstrated on his own hand and wiggled his fingers. “See?” 

Another long moment passed. Then, slowly, the boy let go of the blanket and held out a trembling hand. Ryan felt a quiet relief. He was starting to get through to the kid. As gently as he could, Ryan clamped the oximeter onto the boy’s finger. The boy flinched, but only slightly.

“See? Not so bad.” He pointed to the little digital screen, which was displaying the number 120 beats. “This reads your pulse and tells me how fast your heart is beating.”

“Heart…beat,” The boy whispered, surprising Ryan. The kid stared at the little device, almost wondrous.

“Yeah,” Ryan smiled. “You’re alive, kiddo.” 

______________________________________________________________

He was a John Doe. There were no hospital records of him. No dental or fingerprint records. It’s as if he had never existed until a few days ago. 

Jazz quietly watched the boy through the little window into the hospital room as her parents talked with the CPS agent. The boy sat upright in bed, watching the TV that hung across the room. The hospital gown swallowed his thin frame, making him look smaller than he actually was. It had been three days since he was found at the car accident. His photograph had been shared all over the major news channel, asking the public if anyone recognized him. So far, no one has come forward. 

“Thank you so much again for doing this Jack and Maddie,” Judy, the CPS agent said. “I understand that you stopped fostering years ago, but I’ve called everyone else in the area. No one else had the room.”

“How could we have said no?” Maddie touched a hand to her heart. “The poor child. Someone must be missing him. He looks so sweet.” She looked over at him and frowned, sympathetic. 

Judy shrugged and shook her head.. “I can’t imagine either, but you know how these things can be.” 

Jack clasped a hand on Maddie’s shoulder.”Well until then, we’ll give that kid the best home he’s ever known. He doesn’t know how good my Famous Fenton Fudge is!” He patted his belly. “He’ll never want to leave.” 

As they went over the details and paperwork, Jazz thought about her role as a big foster sister. She had been little when her parents housed the last foster kid. She didn’t have too many memories of that time period. Just older kids using the second bedroom in their house, some of them taking time to play with her, some of them wanting nothing to do with her. She remembered how weird and confusing it was, especially when her friends in kindergarten had siblings that actually stayed and lived at the house with them. 

Before she was born, her parents had a hard time conceiving, and decided to foster kids in hopes that they could nurture young minds into becoming scientists like them. Unfortunately, their specific focus turned heads away more often than inspired them. 

Jazz’s parents were ghost hunters. They believed not only that ghosts existed, but that there was an entirely separate dimension in which these ghosts existed. They also believed ghosts held unique properties that could propel the world decades into the future. It could change medicine, become a different source of electricity, help create new inventions for anything from cars to televisions and more.The opportunities could potentially be endless. 

The only problem is there was no proof ghosts exist. Just a pile of conspiracy theories and hoax videos from online, and some texts theorizing their existence. Technically and literally speaking, ghosts were not real. 

It was always embarrassing having to tell people what her parents did for work. Jazz had learned by now that as long as she changed the subject quick enough after saying her parents were “scientists conducting independent research,” there wouldn’t be any follow up questions. Her parents were also why Jazz wanted to go into neuroscience when she graduated high school. For one, the brain was actually real and for two, there was so much about the brain that was yet to be discovered. How the brain changes its own chemistry overtime due to outside circumstances, circumstances that don’t physically touch the brain at all. How can a single moment alter the way we think, feel, see, and hear? To Jazz, there was no stranger phenomenon.

It’s also why she was so excited to meet her new foster brother. She had eavesdropped on her parents’ conversation with Judy earlier that day. A boy found with no memories of who he is, where he had come from, or who he belonged to. It was sad, of course and scary, not knowing anything about who you are. But what events led to this? Will there be weird behavior patterns that will be linked to the trauma his brain buried deep within his mind? And just maybe, Jazz could help identify what disorder or mental illness he has, get one step closer to treatment, and one step closer to finding himself and his real family. The idea that Jazz could figure out what was wrong with the boy, before the doctors, thrilled her to her core.

“Would you like to meet him?” The voice startled Jazz from her thoughts. She looked around and found Judy beside her.

“I think he might benefit from meeting someone close to his age,” she explained. “Make a friend.”

“Oh.” Of course, that would make sense. He would need someone to connect to, to rely on, and confide in. Jazz could certainly be that person. Her chest rose a bit. “Absolutely.” 

Judy smiled. “Wonderful.” She knocked on the boy’s door and poked her head in. “Hey there, kiddo. Do you remember me? I’m Judy.” 

The boy’s gaze broke away from the TV to look at her. “Yes. Hello, Judy.” His voice sounded young, like it hadn’t hit that drop growing older would bring.

“I want you to meet Jasmine Fenton. You’ll be living with her for a bit.”

Jazz stepped around Judy. She waved. “Hi, I’m Jazz.”

“Hello, Jazz,” he said evenly, neither friendly or aggressive. 

“I thought you two might like to chat, and get to know each other.” Judy suggested. “You’ll also be going to school with her.” 

They decided they were going to enroll him in at Casper High School as a freshmen. The doctors hoped that by giving him a normal environment might help jog some of his memories.

“That’s right,” Jazz jumped in. “I can show you around the school, introduce you to your teachers, help you with homework after,” she rattled off. The boy just blinked at her and Jazz wondered if he understood any of what she was saying. 

“I gotta go finish up some paperwork,” Judy said. “Be back in a few.” She left Jazz and the boy alone. 

They stared at each other for a moment, quietly taking one another in. The boy didn’t fidget. If anything he was eerily calm. 

“So…” Jazz started. “How have they been treating you here?” 

“Fine,” the boy stated simply.

“I’m sure it’s been weird, with all these people visiting you.” She crossed the room to sit in the chair beside his bed. 

“Yes,” the boy agreed. “They bring me food and ask me questions I don’t know the answer to.” He looked down at his lap, as if he were disappointed.

“That’s okay. You don’t have to know them yet.” Jazz told him.

“I don’t?” he asked, as if that had never occurred to him before. Had no one told him it was perfectly okay to not know everything about himself yet?

“Of course not,” Jazz shook her head. “Sometimes things happen and because of those things, we forget stuff. Like who we are.” 

“Oh.” He thought about that for a moment before saying, “Do you forget who you are sometimes?”

Jazz laughed. “Oh no, not quite like that. I mean, I forget to do things like take out the trash, but it’s because I’m focused on doing other things like reading. I just meant more like, sometimes a big event happens, like that girl in the car from the accident. It upset her so much that her brain might make her forget the details of the night to protect her.” 

The boy frowned. “Protect her…how?” 

“Sometimes the things we know and remember cause a lot of emotional stress,” Jazz tried to explain, secretly happy she was getting to describe psychology to him. “It upsets us so we don’t remember it. But eventually, and with help, we can remember it so that it doesn’t upset us anymore.” 

The boy thought about it. “Do you think something upsetting happened to me? Is that why I can’t remember things?”

“It is possible, yeah.” Jazz felt a little guilty just then. This wasn’t how she wanted the conversation to go. They were supposed to be getting to know each other, not play psychologist and patient. She looked around the room to change the subject and noticed he was watching an old Batman movie.

“So…you like superheroes?”

The boy shrugged. “I guess. I like this Batman show.” On the screen, the villain The Penguin was at his mayoral rally and everyone had just heard his own recorded voice saying he played the citizens of Gotham city. The penguin bared his decaying, pointed teeth at the crowd as they all booed at him.

Jazz chuckled lightly. “Yeah, I wasn’t a fan of Danny DeVito in this one.”

“Who?” The boy asked quizzically. 

“Danny DeVito. He’s the actor that plays the Penguin.” 

“Oh. Who plays Batman?”

“Michael Keaton.”

Together they watched the movie. The Penguin was pelted by rotten food before turning his armored umbrella upon the crowd, screaming.

“I feel bad for the Penguin,” the boy suddenly spoke up. 

Jazz looked over at him, curious. “How so?” 

“At the beginning of the movie, he just wanted to find his parents,” The boy fidgeted with the remote in his lap. “He was raised by…penguins.” He wrinkled his nose.

“Yeah.” Jazz shifted in her seat to face him a little more. “It is kind of a silly idea, being raised by penguins.” 

“But it’s not just that, he…” he trailed off, and then said quietly, “he just wanted to know who he was.” 

Jazz understood how he felt connected to The Penguin, at least from that point of view. “It was a part of his villain arc. He was mad that his parents abandoned him, so he blamed the city.” She paused thoughtfully before saying, “do you think your parents did that? Abandoned you?”

“I don’t know.” His shoulders slumped, and he seemed to curl into himself. “They aren’t here.” 

She regretted asking that question, feeling like she was doing a bad job at this, playing psychologist. She thought she’d be better at this. She wanted to be better at this. There was so much unspoken hurt in the boy, and so much not known about him, and no one was coming forward to claim him.

On screen, the Penguin had returned to the sewers and was yelling at his clown like henchmen to not call him Oswald anymore and that he no longer considered himself a human being, but a cold blooded animal. The henchmen stood around him, uncertain of what to do.

“I don’t even know my name,” the boy said, softly. 

Jazz’s heart ached for him. Suddenly an idea popped into her mind. “You could come up with your own name.”

He paused for a moment. “My own name?” 

“Yeah! I mean, why not?” Jazz grew excited with the idea. “You don’t want to go around being called ‘John Doe.’”

“I guess not.” He thought about it, sitting up a little straighter. “Oswald?”

Jazz bursted out laughing. The boy was startled and then flushed with embarrassment. 

“No, I’m sorry,” Jazz giggled, and then immediately felt guilty. “No one actually uses that name. You don’t want people to call you that, trust me. It’s super lame.”

“Oh. Okay.” He was quiet for one more moment. “What about Danny?”

“Danny?” He was thinking of Danny DeVito. Jazz wanted to giggle again, but fought against. No one needed to know he got his name from the comedic actor. “That’s not a bad one. It’s good, actually.” 

“Is it?” he asked, doubt still lingering in his voice.

“It is.” Jazz affirmed. She stuck her hand to shake and smiled. The boy looked at it before extending his own. Jazz grasped it warmly.

“It’s to meet you, Danny Fenton.”