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The paramedic—her uniform coat showed the surname Miller—rolled her eyes. “Yeah, your vitals are strong. You’re a damn fool, but a healthy one.”
“That was crazy, Dex, going in there on your own,” Maverick said.
“Could’ve blown a crater in this block,” Miller said.
“But I didn’t. I was careful.” To Maverick, he said, “I couldn’t deal with waiting if there was a chance they were still alive.”
Her arms crossed tightly over her down-filled coat, Kelsey shuddered and turned to look at the house.
“You were close?” Dex asked. He was asking Kelsey but kept it vague. “They’re grandparents of a friend?”
Maverick answered. “Jenny grew up right there.” He pointed to the sagging, sad little bungalow next door. “The Turners babysat Jenny when she was little, and Kelsey when she was little, too. Maisie’s their granddaughter. She and Kelse grew up together.”
Kelsey’s head dropped, and her shoulders started to shake. Maverick pulled her into his arms and held her. Dex felt at once like an intruder and tried to find somewhere else to put his attention.
Miller took the oxygen mask from him and nodded toward the house. “Looks like we’re up.”
Dex turned to see what she meant. The other paramedic was coming toward the ambulance. “We’re cleared to enter in masks. Two DOA, back bedroom.”
Two people had lived long lives, built deep relationships, had countless stories of hardships and joys. And now they were simply ‘DOA.’
Nobody left a mark. Not really. Just a print in sand, swept away by the next gust of wind or wash of sea. Time rolled on, and the world with it. Everybody got left behind sooner or later.
