We were parked around the scarred wooden kitchen table that had seen more poker games than any of us could count, cards fanned in our hands, the familiar ritual of a slow shift settling around us like an old blanket. The ancient air conditioning unit wheezed and rattled overhead, working overtime in its valiant but losing battle against the oppressive July heat that seemed determined to seep through every crack and crevice, threatening to melt us right into the mismatched chairs we’d salvaged from various garage sales over the years.
The humidity hung thick enough to cut with a knife, making our turnout gear stick to the hooks on the wall and turning every breath into a conscious effort. Even with the AC crankedas high as it would go, beads of sweat still gathered at the back of my neck, and the others shifted uncomfortably in their seats, tugging at shirt collars and reaching for water bottles with the kind of frequency that marked a truly miserable summer night.
“I’m telling you—” Twitch threw down a card. “Deep fryers send more people to the ER than fireworks. Guaranteed.”
“That’s because you don’t know how to work one,” Donkey shot back.
“I know exactly how to work one. You drop the turkey in slow, and you don’t?—”
“—set your porch on fire,” I cut in, leaning back in my chair. “Which you did. Twice.”
“That was once, and it was barely a fire.” Twitch pointed at me like the distinction mattered.
“Barely a fire still gets you on the evening news,” Moose said.
The table cracked up, and Twitch just shook his head, muttering something about ungrateful teammates as he dealt the next hand.
The station alert cut through it, loud enough to jolt all of us upright.
“Medical emergency. Male, collapsed. Huckleberry Saloon. Breathing, not responsive.”
Cards hit the table. Chairs scraped. We were out to the bay before the last word finished echoing.
The doors rolled open, and the night slapped us in the face—thick, wet heat that clung to our skin. Siren up, lights flashing, we tore down Main past dark storefronts and faded bunting still hanging from yesterday’s parade. A handful of people on the sidewalks turned to watch us pass, faces flickering red-white-red in the strobe.
Five minutes ago we’d been giving each other hell over porch fires. Now it was all forward lean and silent calculation, the easy rhythm replaced by the tight, electric hum that came withknowing somebody’s worst moment was waiting for us to walk through the door.
The neon script of the saloon pulsed in the heat, a washed-out yellow barely cutting through the glare of our reds. Even from half a block out, I saw the knot of people on the sidewalk, shoulders hunched, heads turning in unison toward us.
The siren cut off, leaving a hollow, ringing quiet in my ears. Twitch hit the ground running with the med bag, Donkey on his heels with the monitor. I slid the stretcher from its mount, the metal warm against my palms, and followed. The crowd shifted quickly, a ripple of movement, all eyes on us. A few people murmured “Back up, give them space,” but most just stared.
I pushed through the swinging doors, squinting as my eyes adjusted from the flashing reds outside to the muted turquoise glow inside the saloon entryway. The place looked frozen in time—exposed brick walls, scarred wooden bar running the length of the room, Val Kilmer’s watchful eyes from the Tombstone poster framed in a place of honor.
“Make way,” I called, and the crowd parted like water around a stone.
Doc himself was on the ground, one arm braced, trying to push himself upright, but his body wasn’t cooperating. His face was pale under the flush, mouth working like he had words but they were taking the long way out.
Gillian knelt beside him, hair a coppery spill against her shoulders, one hand flat on his chest. Her knuckles were bloodless. She was locked in tight, all that restless energy I remembered from her now braced into a single point of contact.
Our eyes locked for half a second before training kicked in. I moved past her.
Twitch was already down on one knee, checking vitals.
The crowd pressed in closer, whispering. Someone was crying softly. The air felt thick with beer and fear.
“Give us space.” At my order, the onlookers retreated a step.
I knelt opposite Gillian, her hands gripping Doc’s like she could anchor him to this world through sheer force of will. Her face was even paler than her knuckles.
“We’ve got him.” I kept my voice steady. Professional. Like I hadn’t lost hours of sleep last night thinking about her after the town picnic. Like I hadn’t spent four years trying to forget her. “Can you tell us what happened?”
“He just went down. One second he was talking to me, and then—he couldn’t stand up, and he wouldn’t stay down?—”
I nodded, already slipping into assessment mode. “Doc? Can you hear me?”
His eyes found mine, recognition flickering. The pupils were even, but his gaze drifted.
“Doc, squeeze my fingers.” I slid my hand into his. His right hand gripped back—weak but there. When I tried his left, the response was barely a flutter.
