"I have to agree," I say.
"All right, I'm going to prop your knees up and lay your head down. I need to have a look at that ventilator."
I grimace. "I'm afraid I did a real number on it," I say. "Sorry about that."
She waves a chubby pish-tosh at me with her freckled hand and walks over to the chimney, leaving me staring at the sky, knees bent, waiting for the stretcher crew.
When they arrive, Caitlin watches as they strap me onto the board, tying me tighter than is strictly necessary for my safety, and I realize that I'm not being tied *down*, I'm being tied *up*.
"Thanks, Caitlin," I say.
"You're welcome, Art."
"Good luck with the ventilator — sorry again."
"That's all right, kid. It's my job, after all."
18.