No Good Reason Read Online Free Page A
Author: Cari Hunter
stairs. Bemused was probably the politest word to describe people’s reaction to her. She was only five foot four, with hazel eyes, dark brown hair, and a northern English accent. She couldn’t have looked or sounded less Scandinavian if she’d tried, and yet fate and her mum’s bloody-mindedness had saddled her with the name Sanne Jensen. Mispronunciations occurred daily, “Sayne” and “Sanney” being the most popular. If someone had given her a pound coin every time she’d said “Actually, it’s ‘Sanner,’” she’d have been able to retire years ago.
“Fat bloody chance of that,” she muttered, toasting her mum’s stubborn streak with a mango and banana smoothie.
Sunlight poured into the small, tatty kitchen, hiding its flaws and casting rainbows through the water dripping from the faulty tap over the sink. Sanne had bought the cottage for its views and its land, but she had grown to love the old, weathered building for its sheer resilience. Wind, rain, and snow battered it year in, year out, and the worst it ever did was lose a tile or two from its roof. Beyond the kitchen window, hills dominated the landscape, their wild beauty a far cry from the cluttered streets where she had grown up. The dull browns of a cool spring had finally been replaced with lush shoots of bracken and bilberry, while lower in the valley the pastures were dotted pink with foxgloves. Summer arrived late in the Peak District, and the breeze carried with it the bleating of lambs still much smaller than their lowland cousins.
Surrounded by ever-changing scenery, Sanne was fond of each season in its own way, but this was her favourite time of the year to go fell running. She checked her pack one last time and scooped up her keys. The hens scattered as she jogged down the driveway to her car. The rooster just glared from the car’s roof.
“Hop it, Git Face.”
He ruffled his feathers but didn’t budge an inch.
“Oh, you’ll move soon enough, you little bugger,” she said and started the engine.
*
The stretcher collided with the bed, sending a jolt through its patient and forcing Meg to make a grab for the endotracheal tube protruding from his mouth.
“Easy, everyone. We’ll get him across on my count, okay?” She had to raise her voice above the mêlée, keeping a grip on the tube as the team around her prepared to slide the unconscious man from the stretcher. According to the ambulance pre-alert, he was only in his forties, but he was morbidly obese, naked aside from a pair of soiled boxer shorts, and had one foot firmly in the morgue. His belly jiggled as he landed on the mattress, a motion inadvertently worsened by the nurse resuming CPR.
“Bit of hush while I check this, please,” Meg said.
Squeezing the ventilation bag at a steady rate, she assessed the placement of the ET tube with her stethoscope. They could become dislodged during rapid transfers, but this one was right where it needed to be.
“Lovely.” She smiled at Kathy, the paramedic responsible for its insertion, who smiled back in relief. “Go ahead, hon. Everyone else, listen up.”
“Okay. Jimmy Taylor, forty-five years old. Found in a collapsed state by his wife at approximately six thirty. She was doing CPR when we arrived, but hadn’t been able to shift him off the bed. Initially in VF, shocked once, straight into asystole. He’s had”—Kathy checked the back of her glove, on which she’d scribbled her drugs—“four adrenaline. Due another about now. He’s a type two diabetic. Sugars are eight point six. High blood pressure and high cholesterol. Smokes thirty a day.”
“Cheers,” Meg said, wincing as the F1 from her previous shift made another mess of inserting a cannula. “Get him booked in as soon as, will you?”
“No worries. Wife should be here in a mo. She’s coming down with the Rapid Response para. Oh, and she said he’s allergic to strawberries.”
“Right, no strawberries. Probably the least of his
“Fat bloody chance of that,” she muttered, toasting her mum’s stubborn streak with a mango and banana smoothie.
Sunlight poured into the small, tatty kitchen, hiding its flaws and casting rainbows through the water dripping from the faulty tap over the sink. Sanne had bought the cottage for its views and its land, but she had grown to love the old, weathered building for its sheer resilience. Wind, rain, and snow battered it year in, year out, and the worst it ever did was lose a tile or two from its roof. Beyond the kitchen window, hills dominated the landscape, their wild beauty a far cry from the cluttered streets where she had grown up. The dull browns of a cool spring had finally been replaced with lush shoots of bracken and bilberry, while lower in the valley the pastures were dotted pink with foxgloves. Summer arrived late in the Peak District, and the breeze carried with it the bleating of lambs still much smaller than their lowland cousins.
Surrounded by ever-changing scenery, Sanne was fond of each season in its own way, but this was her favourite time of the year to go fell running. She checked her pack one last time and scooped up her keys. The hens scattered as she jogged down the driveway to her car. The rooster just glared from the car’s roof.
“Hop it, Git Face.”
He ruffled his feathers but didn’t budge an inch.
“Oh, you’ll move soon enough, you little bugger,” she said and started the engine.
*
The stretcher collided with the bed, sending a jolt through its patient and forcing Meg to make a grab for the endotracheal tube protruding from his mouth.
“Easy, everyone. We’ll get him across on my count, okay?” She had to raise her voice above the mêlée, keeping a grip on the tube as the team around her prepared to slide the unconscious man from the stretcher. According to the ambulance pre-alert, he was only in his forties, but he was morbidly obese, naked aside from a pair of soiled boxer shorts, and had one foot firmly in the morgue. His belly jiggled as he landed on the mattress, a motion inadvertently worsened by the nurse resuming CPR.
“Bit of hush while I check this, please,” Meg said.
Squeezing the ventilation bag at a steady rate, she assessed the placement of the ET tube with her stethoscope. They could become dislodged during rapid transfers, but this one was right where it needed to be.
“Lovely.” She smiled at Kathy, the paramedic responsible for its insertion, who smiled back in relief. “Go ahead, hon. Everyone else, listen up.”
“Okay. Jimmy Taylor, forty-five years old. Found in a collapsed state by his wife at approximately six thirty. She was doing CPR when we arrived, but hadn’t been able to shift him off the bed. Initially in VF, shocked once, straight into asystole. He’s had”—Kathy checked the back of her glove, on which she’d scribbled her drugs—“four adrenaline. Due another about now. He’s a type two diabetic. Sugars are eight point six. High blood pressure and high cholesterol. Smokes thirty a day.”
“Cheers,” Meg said, wincing as the F1 from her previous shift made another mess of inserting a cannula. “Get him booked in as soon as, will you?”
“No worries. Wife should be here in a mo. She’s coming down with the Rapid Response para. Oh, and she said he’s allergic to strawberries.”
“Right, no strawberries. Probably the least of his