Blind Descent-pigeion 6
lumpishly staring at them as they conversed in tones too low for her to make sense of.
      At length, Holden broke away and came over to where she waited, beyond patience and nearly in a state of catatonia.
      "Frieda?" she asked.
      "No better, no worse."
      "Good news," Anna said. With a wound to the head, it was. Deterioration of levels of consciousness or motor control augured evil, usually swelling or bleeding in the skull that, unchecked, would create deadly pressure.
      Holden nodded. "Peter is putting her on a hundred percent oxygen with a non-rebreather. He's got things well in hand. He separated Frieda from the others to give her a little quiet and privacy. He wants you to bed down over near her. Don't talk to her, he said. Let her sleep. Just be there in case she wakes up."
      "Got it."
      Holden pointed out the recumbent form that was Frieda Dierkz. In his shielded light, Anna could see the leg, an air-splint from foot to mid-thigh. Dr. McCarty was fitting the non-rebreather oxygen mask over the woman's face. Frieda was fighting his attempts to help her, moving her head from side to side and moaning in such a way that Anna was overcome with an irrational fury toward her tormentor.
      Biting back words she was bound to regret, she knelt in the dirt near her friend's head and laid her hand on her brow. "It's me, Anna," she said softly. "I got here as fast as I could. You couldn't have hurt yourself in the Bahamas or Paris, could you? It had to be here. You are such a pain in the butt, Frieda."
      "Interesting bedside manner," McCarty said dryly.
      Frieda stopped fighting. The tension went out of her muscles, and her breathing evened out.
      "Ooh. Hey," the doctor said. "Maybe I'll have to give it a try."
      Anna laughed. "Where are you from?" she asked on impulse.
      "St. Paul, Minnesota." She couldn't have said why, but it didn't surprise her. "I'm glad you showed up," McCarty said wearily. "Let's go with the nasal cannula at six liters. I don't want her getting agitated again."
      Anna handed him the appropriate tubing and, when he had it in place, turned the flow to six liters per minute. He watched her carefully. She didn't bother telling him she was an EMT. Doctors seemed to make a point of being aggressively unimpressed by that tidbit of information.
      McCarty took his patient's pulse one last time, then turned his light on Anna's face. She didn't like being diagnosed, and busied herself with her pack. "Sleep," he prescribed. "Do you need something to help you?"
      Too tired to laugh at him, she managed a "No thanks," and was rewarded by his departure.
      She didn't pull out her space blanket or take off her boots. Laying her head on the unkind lumps in her sidepack, she was instantly asleep.
      So deep was her unconsciousness that when she was awakened she didn't know if minutes or days had passed. For a horrifying moment she didn't know where she was; then, with no decrease in the horror, she did. Such was the suffocating blackness, Anna was blind, deaf, and dumb with it. Black filled her lungs, and she couldn't get enough air. Fighting the drawstrings of her pack, she felt for and found the little blue Maglite. Clicking it on, she carved a space big enough that she could breathe. The pounding of her heart racketed in her ears, and she had to go to the john desperately; a mere Baggie seemed inadequate to the task.
      Breathing evenly, she quieted her heartbeat to a dull thunder. Through it she heard the noise that had pulled her from sleep: her name, a sound so insubstantial it could have been the whisper of a ghost. "Anna . . ." and an exhalation.
      On elbows and knees, she crawled over to Frieda. "I'm here," she said.
      "Anna . . ." again, and something about a lake with marble clouds, and Taco throwing up on her good shoes.
      Shading the light, Anna studied her friend's face. The skin was flushed on forehead and cheeks but white and drawn around the lips. Automatically she checked

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