Page 4

JACK

Fuck today.

After my conversation with Chief Sanders about his job offer, I finally got out onto the lake.

I told him I would let him know my decision in a few days—telling myself that I need at least that to think about what the fuck I’m going to do about the looming return home that seems to be becoming more and more of a possibility as the days tick forward.

And I had plenty of time to think today because I didn’t get a single catch.

Not even a fucking bite.

It’s like the fish were refusing to take the bait of an unemployed firefighter, hiding in a cabin, who can’t even light a goddamn match without his heart rate speeding up.

It took one singular nightcrawler wiggling around on my line for six hours for me to come to the conclusion that it was time.

Time to go home.

Time to figure out what the fuck I’m going to do with my life.

Time to be a man, bury these feelings, and get the fuck over it.

“Shit,” I mutter to myself, almost veering off toward the side of the road for the third time tonight. The roads in these woods are windy and dark as fuck.

I haven’t seen a single car since I left my cabin an hour ago, and I still have a good 20 miles before I’m back in civilization and another three hours until I’m back in Milwaukee.

My cell service is back, but it’s the middle of the night—way too late to call Chief Sanders and tell him I’ll take the job as a fire investigator but only until Simmons is back from leave.

The all-too-familiar mix of feelings starts to bubble to the surface, making my skin feel hot and cold at the same time.

Anger, sadness, frustration, and emotions I can’t even name begin to blend in my gut—the combination strong like the arms that wrapped around me, refusing to let me follow my best friend into that burning house.

The same arms that ultimately held me up when I watched the structure collapse on top of him.

“Fuck,” I mutter, resisting the urge to bang my head against the steering wheel.

My mind tries to latch on to anything but the last moment I saw my best friend alive—the song playing from my truck’s speakers, the howl of wind coming in through my cracked windows, the shine of my headlights, the shadows of the trees.

I’m coming up on a curve in the road, seconds away from slamming on my brakes—just to force myself back into the present before this weight in my chest destroys me from the inside or before I crash trying—when I notice light coming from around the bend.

I release the gas, slowing down on the narrow road, hoping the car coming around from the other way is staying on their side of yellow lines, when I see the faint glow of headlights unmoving and illuminating the dark night.

“What the hell?” I whisper to myself, feeling slightly grateful for a distraction, but quickly feeling the layer of sweat that was forming on my skin turn to ice, and a familiar sense of urgency takes hold when the twisted metal of a car wedged against a tree comes into view; its front crumpled in a mangled mess.

A part of my brain that has been dormant for months comes to life, and I don’t hesitate to spring into action. I pull my truck over to the side of the road, parking it as far off the concrete as I can and cutting my engine.

One second, I’m opening my driver’s side door, and the next, instinct is taking over, and I’m ensuring the scene is safe and assessing potential hazards—like how if a car comes around this bend a little too fast, we’re dead.

The stillness and silence of the night makes the soft hiss of the car’s engine seem out of place, along with the crunching sound of gravel under my work boots as I approach the car.

“Hello?” I hear, but it’s muffled and distant, the sound struggling to carry.

“Hello?” I echo, a slight crack in my voice.

”Miss, are you still there?” the voice says again, like someone talking through a thick wall.

I’m a few steps away when I freeze.

Shattered glass.

Deployed airbags.

“Miss?” The voice sounds clearer, like a phone on speaker, now that I’m just outside the car, and I can hear the slight panic. It’s what brings me back to the moment.

I’m trained for this.

This is my job.

Through the shattered driver’s side window, I can see a figure slumped over, a head of dark brown hair at the center of the spiderweb crack in the glass. I go to open the driver’s side door, finding it’s already opened, as if the driver pulled the handle but didn’t push.

I’ve been in similar situations to this, but the difference between arriving at a scene with my team versus coming across a car crash while severely out of practice does not escape me.

I slowly open the door, careful not to disrupt her position—without properly assessing, I don’t want to risk further injury by moving her, and I’m not about to take her out of this car when any vehicle could come around the corner.

We’re no more than two feet away from the damn road.

With the position of the car against the tree, the thick grass, and the lack of incline in the road, I don’t have to worry about the car moving, so at least we’re stable there.

I catch her body against mine as I open the door, pushing it out of the way so I can properly assess her status, and her body melts against me. I grab my phone from my back pocket, turning the flashlight on, and shining it into the car to make sure there isn’t anyone else in there.

“Holy shit.”

Is that a car seat?

Panic surges through me as I move the phone’s light and try to angle my head to see the child— baby? —in it. I haven’t heard a single sound, no screaming or crying coming from anyone in the car, and it isn’t until I see the car seat is empty that I let out an exhale.

Thank fuck .

The woman’s head is against my chest, her small body being held up by the seat belt she thankfully had on. Her face is covered by her dark brown waves matted with blood, the skin of her uncovered arms marred with cuts and scrapes.

I reach down to carefully move her, so she’s sitting back in the driver’s seat, and that’s when I notice she’s in nothing but a thin satin nightgown, the pink material stained with dark red spots and stretched over a swollen belly.

Fuck .

I need to assess the situation and get an ambulance here as soon as possible.

Reaching over, I feel around for the level to flatten the seat as low as it can go.

“You’re going to be okay,” I say—a small part of me hoping she responds to my voice but knowing it’s a long shot because she’s clearly unconscious.

Once she’s as flat as I can get her, I tilt her head back and lift her chin, using my phone’s flashlight to check her airway, and noting the slight yet steady rise and fall of her chest.

She’s breathing.

I let out an audible sigh. “Atta girl,” I whisper, my shoulders shrugging with relief.

Her long lashes frame her closed eyes, and the pale skin of her face is stark against the dark interior of the car and the dried streams of blood coming from what is most definitely a head wound.

I carefully move her hair resting over her shoulders, the waves soft against my calloused skin, and press two fingers to her neck, finding her pulse just under her skin—slow and thready but there.

ABCDE

Airway, Breathing, Circulation, Disability, Exposure

One, two, and three are done, and she’s clearly a “U” on the AVPU scale—she’s in no way alert and isn’t reacting to my voice or the pain of her injuries. Her unresponsiveness worries me along with the bruising and swelling around her eye—I don’t think the crash caused that kind of damage.

Carefully using my thumb to lift her eyelid, I shine my phone’s flashlight to assess her for any signs of neurological damage, and my mind immediately goes blank.

Her blue eyes are some of the brightest I’ve ever seen, the color reminding me of when the sunlight hits the water, and I wish I was looking at them under different circumstances because I can see myself getting lost in them the same way I do when I’m on the lake.

I watch as her pupils constrict under the light and dilate when I take the light away; another wave of relief hits me, my own eyes closing for a brief second.

“Miss? Hello?” The voice I heard earlier is much clearer now, and I realize it’s probably been asking for a response for the last however many minutes that have passed since I opened the car door. My eyes open, and I finally notice the small stream of light coming from the passenger side floor.

“Hello?” My voice sounds so loud in the quiet of the night.

“Hello? Who am I speaking to?” the voice on the phone asks.

“Jack,” I answer. “Who's there?”

“This number called 911 about ten minutes ago, but the caller must have passed out after giving me her name and telling me she’s been in an accident. An ambulance is still a few minutes out.”

“I found her on the side of the road. She’s unresponsive but breathing.

Her airway is clear, and her pulse is thready, but she’s holding on.

She’s got multiple lacerations all over her exposed skin, but no obvious head trauma,” I rattle off, knowing that this information is more important for when the paramedics get here, but I can’t help the rush of protectiveness I have over this woman, wanting the operator to know that I’ve got her. “And she’s pregnant.”

“Pregnant?” the operator echos, followed by a muffled curse.

I nod my head before remembering the woman on the phone can’t hear me. “Yes, and pretty far along from what I can tell.”

As my adrenaline begins to subside, something akin to fear begins to take hold. It’s like everything from before I came across this wreck is back with even more strength, and I have to hold onto the hood of the car to stay standing, my legs threatening to buckle with the weight in my chest.

Exposure

I need to make sure she doesn’t have any injuries I can’t see.

I take a breath, bringing my mind back to the present. She needs me right now.