The scream that escaped the small, broken girl on the stretcher was far too big. Far too much for someone so small. Noah frowned deeply, but refused to show any other signs of discomfort. The paramedics quickly surrounded the stretcher and their nimble hands sprang into action. One was cutting away the girl's torn and bloody shirt. Another attempted to fit the girl's face with an oxygen mask. Someone else was wincing at the sight of the girl's twisted leg. Noah watched. He was about to take a step out of the way, when a small hand took his own with a desperate grip. (Thankfully, she took his right hand.)
He looked levelly down at the girl on the stretcher. His frown faltered a bit, but he swallowed the sarcastic words that sprang, more out of instinct, to the tip of his tongue. He would stay with her, until the paramedics tried anything on him, anyway.
Within seconds, the girl lost consciousness. Her eyes closed and her tense body went suddenly slack. Noah looked at her, his eyebrows raising out of - unbidden - worry. Her hand, limp, fell away from his. Noah pushed up his glasses, turning his attention to the burly paramedic who stepped between him and the prone girl. The other man's eyes scanned Noah quickly, perhaps trying to figure out why he was here, holding a young girl's hand, or maybe assessing the damage done.
Either way, Noah gave a shrug. "Just be careful with her," he said brusquely, still irritated with the whole situation - as well as in a good amount of pain, which was never a mood lifter. Wincing, he reached, right handed, into his shirt's front pocket and pulled out his pack of cigarettes. His phone, he would realize later, had fallen out of his pocket when he'd hit the ground. For now, he fumbled with his lighter, struggling to light his cigarette against the wind with only one usable hand.