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“Any history of heart issues?” Fletcher asked, packing up leads.

“Nope,” Jenkins said, looking proud. “My doc says I got an A1C of 4.8.” He thumped his chest lightly. “Says I’ve got a great pancreas and an even better ticker.”

“Your pancreas is very impressive,” Fletcher said dryly.

“We’d still recommend you get checked out at the ER if the pain comes back,” I said. “But right now, I’m not seeing signs of a heart attack. Likely indigestion. Maybe take it a little easy on the sugar next time.”

“Next time?” Jenkins wheezed a laugh. “Son, at my age, every time could be the last time. But I hear you. I’ll pace myself. You boys want a piece?” He nudged the chocolate box with one knobby finger.

Fletcher shook his head immediately. “I’m good, sir. Thanks.”

I hesitated, then shrugged. “What’ve you got in there?”

“Pralines from Leon’s,” he said. “Buddy sent ’em from Nashville.”

I grinned. “Well hell. Can’t offend Leon’s.” I plucked one out. “This is strictly for morale.”

“You boys work hard,” Jenkins said. “You earned it.”

We packed up. I popped the praline in my mouth on the way down the stairs. It was good enough to make a grown man write poetry.

As we reached the bottom landing, Fletcher’s radio crackled.

“Unit Two, you clear Maple?” dispatch asked.

Fletcher thumbed the mic. “Affirmative. No transport. Patient advised.”

“Copy. We need you en route priority one. Report of a vehicle over an embankment off 441, near mile marker sixty-eight. Caller reports a truck off the side, unknown injuries, can’t contact occupants. Engine One is en route. EMT needed.”

My spine straightened. “We’re close,” I said. “Fifteen out, running code. Put us en route.”

Fletcher relayed the ETA, then looked at me. “You good?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Let’s go.”

We hit the rig, tossed the monitor back in its dock, and I swung behind the wheel this time. Fletcher took the passenger seat, already flipping through the map in his head, though we both knew 441 well enough.

Speed limit said forty-five for most of that stretch. If we obeyed it, we’d be there in just over forty minutes.

We didn’t.

Lights on, siren wailing when we hit the highway, I pushed as fast as I safely could along the curves. 441 into the Smokies wasn’t forgiving. One bad decision, and we’d be needing extraction ourselves.

Trees blurred. The praline turned to a rock in my gut.

I didn’t know why this one felt different.

We crested a rise and saw Engine One’s lights strobing red against the tree trunks ahead. I eased the rig onto the shoulder behind them and killed the siren, leaving the flashers on.

Fletcher and I climbed out. Night had settled thick over the mountains, but the fire crew’s scene lights cut swaths through the dark. The smell of crushed vegetation and hot engine oil drifted up.

I walked to what was left of the guardrail and looked down.

The truck lay maybe thirty feet below, nose buried against an outcropping, rear end angled up, wheels still. The cab roof was caved in on the driver’s side, windshield a spiderweb of cracks. It was an old pickup—light blue, paint oxidized in places.

And on the rear bumper, catching the light just right, was an Alabama plate.

My stomach dipped.