“Stop talking!” Zig shouted, dropping to his knees. From Andy’s neck, Zig peeled away the layers of blood-drenched foam himself, revealing . . .
Oh, God. Andy’s face was gray, his breathing down to a ragged gasp. The worst part was his throat—a slit shaped like a gruesome smile. Red air bubbles gurgled from the wound, rising and falling with each shallow breath. Zig had been around enough bodies to know what came next.
“The bubbles . . .” Roddy began. “It means blood’s pouring into his lungs. If you don’t stop that—” He didn’t have to finish the sentence.
In overdone TV movies, scrambling EMTs stab makeshift tracheostomy tubes made from hollowed-out pen barrels into a patient’s throat to kick-start breathing. The reality wasn’t nearly as easy. To get to the actual trachea . . .
“Have you ever done this before, Mr. Zig?”
Zig shot him a look. He didn’t have a choice.
Poking his thumb and pointer finger into the wound, Zig spread his fingers like he was enlarging a photo. The slit in Andy’s throat widened like an open mouth. It was the only way to find . . . There. The whiteness of the windpipe itself.
Feeling around with his fingers, Zig spread aside the muscles and fatty tissue to get to the windpipe. It was stiff to the touch, covered in ridges. From there, he simply followed the tiny red bubbles to a small notch. That’s what he was looking for. The cut in the trachea.
With his other hand, Zig slid the plastic cremation funnel into the slit of Andy’s neck. It took Zig a moment to realize he was still holding his own breath. Over the years, he’d removed hundreds of stents from the windpipes of fallen soldiers. This was just the opposite of that, he told himself, almost believing it.
The bubbles were his guide. Zig slid the tip of the funnel along Andy’s windpipe, carefully aiming the tiny spoon until . . . He held his breath again as it notched into the actual cut. That’s the spot. The tip of the funnel was at the right entry point. Now came the hard part. Getting it in.
Zig tightened his grip on the funnel, trying to ignore the beads of sweat that he could taste on his top lip.
“Mr. Zig, if you push too hard you can rupture his—”
“Roddy, I will physically take your head off your body if you utter another syllable.”
Roddy went silent.
Zig took another breath, licking the sweat from his lip.
Gripping the plastic funnel like a screwdriver, he notched the funnel into the windpipe. With a quick twist, Zig gave it a quarter turn clockwise, then twisted it back again—twist and twist it back, over and over, carefully trying to wedge it in just—
There was a muted burst of air, like Andy belched, followed by a hiss. Drops of condensation appeared inside the plastic funnel. Air. Andy was getting air.
“That’s—！ Mr. Zig, he’s breathing!”
Determined to keep it that way, Zig let go of the windpipe with one hand, then reached into his pocket and pulled out the one other item he’d taken from the desk.
Every mortician’s secret weapon. A tube of skin glue.
Grabbing a flap of skin at Andy’s throat, Zig squeezed it around the neck of the funnel and slathered it with skin glue. The glue turned pink from all the blood. But so far, it was staying shut. Now to deal with the wound itself . . .
Feverishly working left to right like he was sealing a Ziploc bag, Zig pinched Andy’s skin shut and added more glue, then another pinch of skin, then another gob of glue. Inch by inch, he worked his way across Andy’s throat, squeezing it so tight and adding so much glue that a few times, his own fingers were stuck together. In the end, it left a bubbly pink scab across Andy’s throat, the plastic tube sticking up like a flagpole—but the bleeding . . .