\"The Reach\" by Nate Kenyon (Fiction)
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prologue 10 years ago. Beyond the frosted panes of double glass, the wind screamed its displeasure. Day had slipped into night with the coming storm, the W. K. O. B weatherman was predicting three feet of snow today. Another six inches tomorrow, the worst storm to hit in 30 years, he said. Do not leave your homes unless it's absolutely necessary. The young doctor was listening intently to the radio at the second floor station when her pager beefed. She checked the code, slipped quickly across the wine red carpet to the nearest window and peered out on a desolate winter scene. The little hospital parking lot wore a sheet of inch the guys penned by mountains of plowed snow. It was mostly empty. The hospital all but shut down in preparation for the storm Onley. Three patients today, and two of them had come in on the same call. A couple of skiers who got disoriented in the woods and had frostbite, one of them the pretty young thing, lost a little toe on her left foot. The doctor found it necessary to amputate blood. The doctor saw it again as she closed her eyes. Bright red blood coating her gloved hands. The radio buzz now and then, as the wind made the signal come and go. She opened her eyes. The parking lot lights barely cut through the snow as it started to fall faster. Nothing that looked like an emergency, but she could hardly see anything at all. She shivered as the scene below her faded into arriving white blanket of demand. Mysterious shapes down at the front entrance, The admitting desk was empty above the little waiting area with its row of plastic molded chairs. A 19 inch television set flickered from a bracket on the wall. The rug here felt damp, and the color had faded in a trail from the waiting area to the front desk. It smelled like cleaning solution, the doctor responded. Movement through the sliding glass doors to emergency texts were unloading a woman from her car. One of them slipped to his knees and cursed a black man in a green hospital coat and slacks, bare hands and head, tight coal black hair frosted with Snow James or something? No, Jack, that was it likely to lose his ear lobes to the cold if he isn't careful. And maybe the tips of his fingers, too. It could happen in five minutes in this weather. The other one had a scarf wrapped around his neck and war knitted pink mittens that had been sitting in the lost and found. And he looked warmer but not much. A country boy, thick and heavy, like he might play linebacker on the local college football team, Stewart was his name or Stan Young kid. She had only been working there a week and couldn't remember everybody. Yet the sliding glass doors opened, and they wield the woman inside on a stretcher, a gust of wind hit the doctor like a gut punch. For a moment, the lobby was transformed into a blizzard, the doors closed and the snow settled in the silence, like one of those Christmas globes that had been shaken and then put to rest.