— Eleanor, the bridge over the creek washed out last night. No ambulance is getting through until the water recedes tomorrow. You’re all he’s got.
Eleanor didn’t hesitate. She helped the men carry the pilot onto her kitchen table, which she had covered in a fresh white sheet.
Bill stayed behind, his face pale:
— Tell me what to do, Doc.
— Wash your hands with soap and then rubbing alcohol, — Eleanor commanded. — Then start tearing these sheets into strips. I need light—bring every lamp in the house over here.
She opened her bag. An old mentor had once told her that a real surgeon could operate in a field if they had to. She cut away the man’s expensive flight jacket.
— Damn it…
— How bad is it?
— Compound fracture in the leg, possible internal bleeding, and a deep laceration near the femoral artery. If you guys hadn’t tied that tourniquet, he’d be dead already. Bill, I have to go in. I don’t have anesthesia, just some local lidocaine and heavy sedatives.
Bill sighed:
— Do what you have to do. Hank is trying to radio the county, but it’s going to be a long night.
— I don’t even have a monitor. I have to do this by feel…
— Then do it by feel. You’re the only doctor for fifty miles.
Hours later, as the sun began to peek over the ridge, the man finally groaned and opened his eyes. He looked around the rustic kitchen, confused, then focused on Eleanor:
— Did… did I crash?
