First Date by R.L. Stine, Sammy Yuen Jr. Page A

I’ll call nine-one-one. I’ll get an ambulance.”
    Uttering a low moan, his eyes shut tight from the pain, he obediently held the burned hand under the cold water. “Huh? Where are you going?” he managed to ask.
    â€œTo call an ambulance. I’ll be right back.”
    Chelsea ran to the front, picked up the phone on the end of the counter, and reached for the card in her pocket.
    I’ll call Agent Martin first, she decided. Then I’ll call 911.
    Her hands trembling, Chelsea pushed in the numbers on the card. Pressing the receiver to her ear, she glanced back through the kitchen door.
    Sparks was still at the sink, cradling his burned hand in his other hand, his face twisted in agony.
    The phone rang once. Twice.
    â€œCome on! Pick up!” Chelsea pleaded aloud, watching Sparks.
    â€œAgent Forrest,” a deep voice on the other end of the line said.
    â€œIs—uh—Agent Martin there?” Chelsea whispered, cupping her hands over the mouthpiece so that Sparks couldn’t hear.
    â€œNo, he’s out” was the brusque reply. “Can I help you?”
    â€œYes. This is Chelsea Richards. At the All-Star Café. Please—”
    Holding his hand, Sparks stepped, up behind her.
    â€œOh!” Chelsea cried out, startled.
    Had he heard?
    â€œDid you reach them? Are they sending an ambulance?” he asked, his voice weak, his face twisted in pain, sweat pouring down his face.
    â€œSparks—go back and put cold water on your burn,” Chelsea said, speaking into the phone so the FBI agent could hear Sparks’s name. “I’m getting you an ambulance, Sparks.”
    There was a brief silence on the other end. Then Agent Forrest said, “We’ll be right there. Keep him there. We’ll bring an ambulance too. Are you in danger?”
    â€œI don’t think so,” Chelsea replied uncertainly.
    â€œWe’ll be right there.”
    The line went dead.
    Sparks slumped into the nearest booth. He was moaning softly, resting the burned hand palm up on the table.
    Chelsea clicked on all the lights. She stepped around the counter and stood over the booth.
    â€œAre they coming?” he asked.
    She nodded. “Let me see the hand.”
    She lowered her head to examine it. It was red and swollen. The skin had peeled in several places, and the open wounds were oozing. Pieces of skin were charred black where hot grease had clung.
    After a few seconds Chelsea had to look away. She took a deep breath, forcing down a wave of nausea.
    â€œPretty bad,” she managed to say.
    To her surprise, he climbed to his feet. “It’s not so bad,” he muttered, avoiding her glance. “Maybe I’ll go.”
    â€œNo!” she cried, louder than she had intended.
    He turned his eyes to her, his face filled with suspicion.
    â€œThe ambulance will be here any second,” she told him. “You’ve got to get that treated. It’s a really bad burn.”
    He stumbled toward the door. “No. It’ll be okay. I’ll go home and put a bandage on it.”
    â€œNo—please,” Chelsea pleaded.
    She had to keep him there. She had to make himstay until the FBI arrived. He was dangerous. Very dangerous. She couldn’t let him go free.
    â€œHere,” she said, shoving a glass under the soda dispenser. “Drink this. Sparks, please. Sit down.”
    He hesitated, then turned back to her. She held up the glass of Coke. “Here.”
    â€œHey, a free drink. This is my lucky night,” he said bitterly.
    Chelsea heard a siren outside.
    Hurry. Please—hurry! she thought.
    â€œHere, Sparks.” She held the glass out to him.
    â€œI’ve got to go,” he said, raising his good arm and wiping the perspiration off his forehead with his jacket sleeve. “I’m kind of dizzy. Got to lie down.”
    â€œIt’s from shock,” she said. “Sit down. Come on, Sparks.”
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