Clara’s voice is a lifeline, pulling me up from the murky depths of unconsciousness. Her hand is cool on my forehead, her touch gentle.
I blink my eyes open, the bright light filtering through the small windows making me wince. “Where am I?”
“Ambulance. How are you feeling? Fuck. That was so scary.”
“I’m okay,” I say, my voice a hoarse whisper.
It’s a lie. I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck.
I turn my head slowly, carefully, and my gaze lands on a lanky form lying on a narrow gurney pushed against the opposite wall.
It’s Jasper. He’s not injured, as far as I can tell, but he’s a mess. He’s caked in dirt from head to toe, a streak of mud across his cheek. He’s just lying there, staring at the ceiling with a look of profound shock on his face.
“What happened?” I ask.
Clara helps me sit up, pressing a cup of water into my hands. “You fainted,” she says, her voice still shaky with residual fear. “Flat out. One minute you were listening to the CDC guy, the next you were on the ground. You scared ten years off my life, Sedona.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“I’m just glad you’re up now.”
I take a sip of water, the cool liquid a small relief against my parched throat. “My head is pounding.”
“Can I get you anything? Another blanket? More water?” she asks, fussing over me like a mother hen.
“I’m okay,” I say, though I’m far from it. She takes my hand, her grip tight and reassuring. “Where are the others?”
My mind is still trying to piece together the fragmented memories.
“They’re giving their samples,” she says, just as a new face appears at the ambulance door.
It’s the deputy sheriff, looking like a character from an old war movie with a large bandage wrapped around his head.
He peeks in, his eyes landing on me. “She’s awake!” he yells over his shoulder, his voice booming with relief.
I turn to Clara, my brow furrowed in confusion. “Is that… a bandage?”
Clara nods, and a strange, choked sound escapes her. It takes me a second to realize she’s trying not to laugh.
“The sheriff tackled him,” she whispers, her eyes sparkling with mirth.
“What?” I ask, completely lost.
And then the story comes tumbling out, a bizarre tale that feels like it belongs in a slapstick comedy.
“After you fainted, Deputy Martinez… bolted,” she explains, her words coming in a rush. “He took one look at the hazmat suits and just ran. Ben Riley full-on tackled him in the dirt. Rightthere in front of everyone. And then Jasper, poor kid, tried to follow the sheriff, I think to help, and he tripped over a loose fence post and face-planted. That’s how he ended up all dirty.”
I can’t help it. A laugh bubbles up from my chest, a painful bark that makes my head throb viciously.
I wince, pressing a hand to my temple, but the image of Sheriff Ben Riley tackling his own deputy is too absurd, too perfect, to contain.
Just then, three figures block the light from the open door.
It’s the Carsons.
Billy is the first one to speak, his deep voice cutting through the air. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I say, my gaze meeting his. He looks concerned, his blue-gray eyes intense and searching my face.
