Noah watched her face and saw the moment when everything else fell away.The fear.The cave.The water somewhere behind them.The impossibility of what she was about to do.
And all that remained was the doctor and her patient.
“Okay, Alex,” she said softly.Even though the boy couldn’t hear her.Even though he was unconscious.“Let’s save your leg.”
She positioned the scalpel, her hand steady now.The blade caught the light.
And she made the first incision.
Blood welled immediately—dark and thick.The metallic smell filled the small space.
Noah held the light and watched the woman he loved perform surgery in a cave with nothing but determination and a pocketknife and faith that bordered on reckless.
And he sent up another silent prayer.
If they somehow survived this, he was never letting her out of his sight again.
Teague’s lungs burned as he crested the limestone cliff, his fingers raw despite his gloves—the synthetic fabric worn thin at the tips.The plateau spread before him—pockmarked, scarred, a battlefield waiting to claim more victims.
The low desert ground coverage sported a deeper shade of green than usual—sage and rabbitbrush drinking up yesterday’s downpour.The rain had stopped twenty minutes ago, but those heavy gray clouds?Not done yet.They were still swollen with water waiting to fall, and pressed down on the horizon like a lid about to seal them all in.
Forty minutes.He’d been climbing for forty minutes since that flare—brilliant red, arcing across the sky.His heart hadn’t stopped hammering from that moment.The explosion in the cave had nearly convinced him this was a recovery operation.Bodies, not survivors.
But that flare meant life.Hope.
And he needed to move.Fast.Because Noah and Meg were trapped somewhere below in a cave system that could collapse any second.
Teague unclipped from his last anchor—the carabiner making a satisfying snick as it came free—and scanned the terrain.Where had the flare come from?Too many shafts to narrow it down—dark mouths yawning open in the rock.Some barely wider than a coffee can.Others big enough to drive a truck into.If he’d calculated the angle right, that narrowed it to maybe ten.
Maybe.
His radio crackled.“Teague, what do you see?”
Eden’s voice—sharp, focused.Grounding.He could picture her in dispatch, bent over maps spread across the desk, her blonde hair falling forward as she cross-referenced coordinates.Probably had three screens going.
“I see a dozen holes, give or take.”Teague moved to the nearest shaft.He dropped a glow stick—the chemical tube tumbled end over end.It fell maybe fifteen feet before hitting bottom with a hollow thunk.Too shallow.“Most of these are probably dead ends or collapsed.”
“Probablyisn’t good enough.”Papers rustled over the line.“The SAR team’s about an hour out.Liam got the group to where they could walk out alone, and he’s headed back to help you.But he’s still forty-five minutes out.You need to wait for backup before going down.”
“Forty-five minutes?”Teague was already moving to the next shaft—wider, darker, with the edges worn smooth by centuries of water erosion.“They may not have that long.”
“But you going down the wrong shaft won’t help anyone.”
He dropped another glow stick.This one fell and fell, green light fading into deep darkness—twenty feet, thirty, forty.Still falling.Good sign.A draft pulled at his jacket—air moving through the system.
Better sign.
“This one’s deep.Strong draft.I think this is it.”
Eden’s chair creaked over the line.“Youthink?Teague, wait for?—”
“Can’t wait.”He knelt at the edge and examined the rock.His headlamp beam played across the surface.A narrow vertical crack ran near the shaft’s opening—perfect for a thread anchor.He began feeding rope through it, but the limestone crumbled under his touch, fragments pattering down into the darkness.“I saw that flare come from this area.This shaft has the right depth, the right airflow.It’s them.”
“Or it’s a dead end and you’ll be stuck when they actually need you.”
Teague paused and tested the crack again.More fragments broke away.The rock here was degraded—too much exposure, too much weathering.“Rock’s crumbly here.I’m setting up a thread anchor but?—”
“Stop.”Eden’s voice cut through with no hesitation.“The canyon rock there is notorious for that.You need to distribute the load.Add piton anchors—at least two, maybe three if you’ve got them.Thread it through all of them.”
