Me:Late call. Might be a while. Don’t wait up.
I stare at it for a second, wondering if I should add more, especially after the tension that’s been building between us for days now, since the Sunday barbecue at the station. But I don’t, I just hit send.
She doesn’t need details, and she doesn’t need to sit there picturing worst-case scenarios. All she needs to know is I’m not walking through the door at seven like I usually would.
Sirens cut through the evening traffic, and the only light left in the sky are the beams of headlights against the inky clouds. I watch the houses blur past and feel that familiar tightening settle in, the switch flipping from off duty to locked in.
The address is a small weatherboard place on a narrow street with a porch light flickering. There’s a patrol car angled across the driveway.
Beck steps off first. “Engine on scene,” he radios. “Single-story residence.”
Tucker meets us at the door. “Female, thirties. Ambulance inside.”
There’s no teasing tonight, no friendly competitive comments. His eyes stay on me for a beat longer than I’m comfortable with, but I ignore it, heading through the door instead.
The smell hits immediately. Something chemical and sour, layered over the scent of burnt food.
Beck does a quick sweep of the room. “Any hazards?”
“Clear,” Fletch calls from the kitchen doorway.
She’s on the living room floor, sweat plastering her hair to her forehead. The paramedics are working fast, and one of them glances up at us and nods.
“Unresponsive on arrival,” he says. “Resp’s coming back. She went down in the living room, and the kid found her.”
Kid.
I look up, and a small boy is sitting on the couch in cartoon pajamas. Five or six—Elle’s age. His bare feet are tucked under him, and he’s holding a plastic cup with both hands like he forgot he was drinking from it.
His eyes are fixed on the floor where his mother is, and he’s frozen still, watching everything.
“Hey, buddy,” I say, moving toward him and crouching so I’m level. “What’s your name?”
“Dylan.”
Behind me, she jerks upright with a sharp inhale, and Dylan’s eyes widen as he watches.
“I’m fine,” she snaps immediately, swatting at the paramedic’s hands. “I’m fine. I just got dizzy.”
“You were unconscious,” the paramedic replies evenly.
“I said I’m fine. I was just tired. Jesus. You people—”
Her voice sharply climbs, getting defensive and angry, and Dylan flinches at the sight. That’s the part that gets me. The way her voice fills the room, and the kid’s shoulders curl in on themselves like he’s bracing for impact.
Beck steps closer to the stretcher. “Ma’am, we need you to stay still. Let them do their job.”
“I don’t need to go anywhere,” she says, trying to wrench free. “I have a kid—”
“You’re going to the hospital,” Colt says.
Fletch reappears at my shoulder and, without a word, hands me one of the small stuffed bears we keep in the truck for scenes like this. They’re community donations, and we go through them faster than anyone would imagine.
I take it and hold it out to the boy.
“You’re officially a temporary firefighter,” I tell him. “Can you look after this guy until we’re done here?”
He looks at it and leans forward, but hesitates as his mom struggles behind me.
