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In that instant, Ambri arched off the ground and sucked in a deep breath, then coughed as if he were being turned inside out.
Relief—so profound it made me dizzy—washed through me. I tried to reach him, but the paramedics went into a different set of actions. They moved him to a stretcher, constantly relaying information to each other about his status. Ambri didn’t open his eyes, but he was breathing. They put an oxygen mask on his face and hurried him to the ambulance.
“I need to go with him, please…” I said, nearly begging. But that felt like an older version of me. One that didn’t fit anymore. I squared my jaw. “I’m not leaving here unless it’s with him.”
“You family?”
“I’m his boyfriend.”
The word sounded too weak to describe what Ambri meant to me, but it got me in the ambulance. Or maybe it was the look in my eyes, that I wasn’t going to take no for an answer.
The officer jerked a thumb. “Go ahead.”
Inside, the medics were moving efficiently but seemed calmer. Less frantic.
“Sit here,” one said kindly—the one that hadn’t given up. He indicated a seat on the bench on Ambri’s left side. “Talk to him. Let him know you’re here.”
I nodded and took Ambri’s hand in mine. “Ambri? Hey, can you open your eyes? Please, baby. Open your eyes.”
And he did. Those blue-green eyes fluttered and found me over the oxygen mask.
“Hey, there he is,” said the medic, beaming. “Thought we’d lost him.”
“He’s not out of the woods yet,” said the other. Wilson. “Prolonged smoke inhalation. I’m shocked we brought him back, honestly.”
I heard the subtext. Ambri might have complications or struggles we didn’t know yet.
I don’t care. I’ll take care of him no matter what.
“One thing at a time,” the kindly medic said. “It’s a miracle he’s alive. A bloody miracle.”
I bent over Ambri. “You’re safe now, okay? You’re safe. I’m right here.”
His hand in mine tightened, he smiled, and then went back to sleep.
At Chelsea and Westminster Hospital, Ambri was whisked away, and I was led by a social worker to a Critical Care Unit waiting room.
“I understand you’re with the man who was brought in from the Chelsea fire?”
“Yes, he’s Ambri. I’m Cole Matheson.”
“Hi, Cole. I’m Annette. I’m hoping you can help us. We can’t find any identification for him. Can you give me a last name, date of birth, national ID number?”
“Umm…” I floundered. They’d probably want to examinemyhead if I told them he was born in 1762. My hands were bunched in my coat pockets because I was a ball of stress and fear. I felt something in the right one and pulled out a…passport?
“What…?”
I flipped it open and there was Ambri’s photo—looking as sly and beautiful as ever. All of the numbers were up-to-date. He was going to turn twenty-five—again—next June.
“Perfect,” the woman said. “May I?”
Bewildered, I handed it over to her.
“Ambrosius Edward Meade-Finch. Quite a name. Ah, there’s his birthday.” She handed the passport back to me. “And do you have his address?”
“He lives with me,” I said without thinking, then gave her my Whitechapel address, only because it seemed like the right answer. Just as I knew the woman I’d crashed into had put the passport in my pocket.
And that she’d been talking to me for months now.
