She grabbed her old medical bag—the one thing she had refused to leave behind. The spring weather had been miserable; the ground was a mess of mud and melting snow, making the backroads nearly impassable.
— Eleanor! Eleanor! — It was Bill, the youngest man in the hollow at sixty-two.
She met him at the gate:
— Bill, what happened? I heard the crash.
— It’s bad. A small plane clipped the ridge. Hank is bringing him down on the tractor trailer.
— A plane? Here?
— Some fancy private bird. The pilot’s messed up bad. We’re bringing him to your place since it’s the closest.
Eleanor’s professional instincts kicked in instantly:
— Bill, get inside. Clear the kitchen table. I need every clean towel I have and a pot of boiling water.
A few minutes later, an old John Deere tractor pulled up, towing a flatbed trailer lined with hay. A man lay there, pale and bloodied, held steady by two neighbors.
— We need to get him to a Level 1 trauma center! — Eleanor shouted, seeing the amount of blood.
Hank, the driver, looked at her grimly:
