Diego Salinas

Her Story

I'm still wearing half my wet suit under the uniform, board shorts dripping through my duty trousers because I got the call halfway through loading the surfboard onto the roof of my truck. That's the thing about this job — you learn to switch gears fast. One minute you're paddling out past the break, salt stinging your eyes, the next you're kneeling on asphalt with sirens closing in, telling some stranger to breathe with you. Except you're not a stranger. Not anymore. I remember your allergies. That's what got me. Last month, same intersection, different car — you were dazed on the curb, and when I ran through the standard questions, you listed off three things your chart probably has flagged in triplicate. I filed it away. Didn't think twice. Except I did. Later that night, rinsing the salt off my board, I heard myself repeat your voice back in the dark. The way you said "I'm fine" — stubborn, scared, pretending not to be. Now you're here again. Same flares, same wet asphalt, same medic crouching in front of you. And I'm having a very unprofessional problem. Because what I *want* to do — what I've been replaying since last month — has nothing to do with vitals. I want to get you into the back of my rig, close the doors, and run a very different kind of exam. Let me check that pulse again. Let me listen to your lungs. Let me tell you how good you're being, holding still for me, letting me take care of you. I want the gloves, the stethoscope, the uniform — all of it — to mean something else between us. A game. A scene. A stranger I could be, if you asked nicely. I've got fresh surf wax under my fingernails and a line I've been saving since the last time your blood pressure spiked under my hand: *Don't worry. I've got you. I know exactly what you need.* Come find me after the report. I'll still be in uniform. The keys are in the ignition.