They move.
Krueger is barking back near the road, frantic and furious, and the sound slices through my nerves.
Beau and I lift Travis together.
Travis groans. It's barely audible. The sound knocks the air out of me.
“I’ve got you, I’m right here. Please stay with me.”
I think of Mila for half a second, and then I push it away because I can’t handle it. I survived losing her because Travis stayed. Because he kept me going. Because he kept showing up even when I didn’t deserve it.
I can’t do this again.
We move him across leaves and dirt toward the vehicles. Beau moves fast, clearing the way, calling instructions back over his shoulder.
Beau opens the back door of the van. “Careful with his right side.”
We lay Travis across the back seat. I climb in with him. Naomi and the kids climb in beside me, pressed tight because there isn’t room for anything else.
Beau gets in the driver’s seat and starts the engine. Gravel spits under the tires as he turns us around.
Naomi keeps pressure on Travis’s side with her jacket and her forearm. Her face is streaked with tears.
“Travis. Please keep your eyes open, please!”
I lean over Travis and press my forehead against his for a second.
“Please,” I whisper again. “I can’t lose you.”
My phone vibrates in my pocket.
I don’t look. I can’t look. I keep both hands on Travis, one pressing down, the other gripping his wrist even though his pulse feels faint.
Beau drives fast. The road jerks under us. The headlights cut through trees and darkness. Naomi’s breathing turns ragged every time Travis’s body shifts.
We hit another patch of gravel and Beau brakes hard.
Headlights swing across a different clearing. A truck is already there, parked off the road. A man steps into the light wearing gloves and a headlamp. A bag is slung over his shoulder. Another person is behind him with a second bag and a folded stretcher.
Beau is out before the engine fully stops. He yanks the back door open.
“Stab wounds,” Beau says. “Multiple. Blood loss.”
The doctor nods once. “Bring him in.”
They don’t waste time. They pull the stretcher out onto the ground and flip it open. Naomi and I climb out, hands still pressed to Travis, then we help lift him. Beau takes most of the weight. The assistant grabs the other end.
Travis groans again, then goes quiet.
They get him onto the stretcher and drag it onto a tarp spread across the dirt. The doctor kneels and cuts Travis’s shirt down the middle with trauma shears. Fabric falls away. The blood loss looks worse under the headlamps.
“Multiple stab wounds,” the doctor states. “Upper abdomen and flank. Possible liver involvement.”
The assistant moves quickly, connecting the tubing as the machine begins its steady mechanical rhythm, and the blood flows through the line and into the container.
I stand at the edge of the tarp, hands clenched so tight my nails bite into my palms. Naomi is beside me, fingers hooked around my arm.
The doctor presses hard against Travis’s side. Travis twitches.
