by Mariah Dietz
I’m coughing and wheezing, sucking in air that burns my lungs, and still all I see is her fire, the one that is stronger than any I’ve ever faced.
Drake is already working on Gaines, checking his vitals, and strapping a bag of oxygen over his nose when Captain helps me to sit up and raises my arms while shoving a mask in my face.
“Deep breaths,” he coaches me.
The clear air burns just as badly as the smoke-filled air I was choking on, but eventually the burn recedes to a twinge, and I pull the mask away and drop my gloves. “It’s fucking roasting.”
“What happened with your tank?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you check it at the beginning of your shift?”
“Like clockwork.”
“Piece of goddamn shit,” he grumbles.
“How’s Gaines?” I ask.
“Piece of shit has two left feet.”
I chuckle, and it turns that twinge in my lungs back into a burn.
“You should have seen what he did to the piece-of-shit wall.” I use his coined phrase.
Captain’s laugh lacks all humor but is coated with relief, and he pats my shoulder and then squeezes it before releasing a heavy sigh.
Our run in with the fire doesn’t slow down our calls. We have three medical calls before we have a break long enough to start cooking dinner. I’m in the kitchen beside Lance, stained aprons around both of our waists because like everything in the station, order and cleanliness are two of our highest regards. It’s vital for what we do because it’s how we’re always the first responders to a call. Lives depend on us, and we take that seriously. Our uniforms remaining clean is paying respect to our station and our fellow brothers, and no one mutters a single word about opposing wearing an apron, but if someone didn’t wear one the entire station would be down their necks.
“How ya feelin’?” Lance asks, slicing up a fourth onion.
“If you put any more garlic or onion in that pot, no one’s going to want to be around us for a week. We’re going to be sweating the scent,” Peters says, delivering some boxes of lasagna noodles.
“Ask the Italian Stallion. DeLuca, can you ever have too much onion or garlic?” Lance asks, pointing his large chef’s knife at me.
I shake my head. “Don’t call me the Italian Stallion or I’ll start calling you Grandpa.”
“I thought it was cute.”
“So was your hair twenty years ago when you had it.”
He grips his chest with his free hand. “That hurts. That really hurts. To think you were my favorite.”
There’s a chorus of laughter as Probie and Drake set to work chopping vegetables that Lance set out for the salad.
“Call, boys!” Captain yells as the lights begin flashing. The radio reads an address and reports it’s a medical call, followed by 9-1-1.
The stove is turned off, and everything is left, our dinner forgotten. We head to our stations, dressing in our equipment because while we aren’t being called to a fire, there’s always a chance that we will be called to another incident while we’re out.
Captain’s on his phone as we pile into the rig. With a tight jerk of his head, he hangs up. “Lance, it’s one of our own. You get this thing moving.”
It’s something we all fear, to respond to a call where you might know the person that needs rescued.
“Who is it, Cap?”
“Kid,” Captain says, biting the inside of his cheek. “Severe peanut allergy. He’s not breathin’.”
There’s a ringing in my ears, and a chill coating me like a blanket. “What’s the name?” I demand, interrupting the captain as he barks out his checklist to Probie.
He stops and looks at me before looking to his phone to confirm. “Patrick Webb.”
“Go!” I yell, sitting up. “Go!” I bark again when Lance doesn’t speed up.
No one asks what’s come over me. They’re all just as insistent.
Drake and I both took medical training, it’s why one of us is always on a shift. Mine has been extensive, even doing terms within the hospital so I could rank up and be able to increase the survival rates of the victims when we show up. “I’m point,” I announce.
Again, they don’t argue, but I notice the way Captain stares at me as I rehearse what is going to happen. Where I’m going to inject him, how I’ll turn him, what I’ll be looking and listening for. Going over the steps is the only thing that keeps me focused and grasping any ounce of sanity.
We pull up to a large estate with so many cars parked along the street we have to double park. We’re out of the truck in record time, medical gear tucked under my arm as I sprint across the yard and into the house in fifteen steps.
“Where is he?” I yell, bumping into people who are standing around crying.
“This way,” an older woman says, leading me into the next room.
The pain of seeing Hayden on the floor unconscious is both sharp and dull as my heart feels like it’s bludgeoned. I drop beside him, my body going into autopilot and knowing each precise step and measure to take.
“He’s not breathing!” I shout.
Drake is beside me already, pulling on his gloves and digging through his bag as I ask the older woman if they’ve given him his EpiPen shot.
She shakes her head. “His mom doesn’t know how. She thinks they left it at their house.”
I rip the lid of an EpiPen off with my teeth and spit it across the room, pushing it through the denim of Hayden’s jeans, injecting the solution. Then I go up on my knees and begin CPR, working to shock his heart and get it back into its natural rhythm.
“Come on, kid. You’ve got this,” I growl the words, staring at his lifeless body, waiting for a response, even the slightest of changes.
“Hayden!” I yell before dropping my mouth over his to fill his lungs. “Fight, kid! Fight!” I beg.
I hear Drake setting up the paddles as I begin compressions again. I’ve had other lives in my hands, beat their hearts, breathed their air, but I’ve never done it with someone I know, someone I care about more than I thought possible.
Drake announces the steroid he shoots into Hayden’s thigh, and then he hands me the paddles that are supposed to shock Hayden’s heart and give it a jump start.
I hold them so Drake can cut Hayden’s shirt down the middle. I rub the paddles together, dictating one of the lowest settings, and then place them on his small chest, where I can see each of his ribs protruding.
“Clear,” I announce and then hit the button. Hayden’s body convulses with the shock, lifting at strange angles and then falling.
My heart is pumping hard enough for both Hayden and me as I wait to see if his heart responds.
“I got it,” I announce, my body tingling with hope and relief. “He’s doing it. Set up oxygen,” I tell Drake, then glare at the old woman. “And she’s not his fucking mother.”
Because Hayden had a reaction just a few weeks ago, I know his body is going to struggle more with fighting this attack. “How much did he consume?”
The woman shakes her head, dumbfounded.
“You’re fucking useless!” I yell. “Call his actual mother.”
Drake slips an oxygen tube down Hayden’s throat. It’s going to make it hard for him to eat for a few days, but his body is too weak to be expected to breathe enough oxygen right now.
“I’ve got you, Hayden,” I tell him, brushing a hand across his forehead. “I’ve got you, buddy.”
A woman comes in, covering most of her face with cupped hands. “Is he okay?” she asks.
I don’t know who she is and don’t care. My focus is on Hayden right now, and so I look away, reminding Hayden that everything is going to be okay.
“Do you know what he ate? How much?” Drake asks.
“He said he needed his shot, and then started gasping, and then he fell out of his chair.” The woman is crying harder. “I’ve never seen anything like it. I didn’t know where his shot was or how to put it in
. My husband has always said he’d be there and I didn’t have to worry, but the guys went out fishing and Hayden wanted to stay, and…” She cries harder, and the older woman beside her wraps her arms around her.
“Call his mother,” I demand again.
“She is his mother,” the old woman snaps.
“She’s not his fucking mother!” I yell. “Call Ella! NOW!”
“I did,” the crying woman says, nodding.
Hayden’s eyes remain closed, but Drake speaks to him as though he’s awake, calmly assuring him.
The ambulance arrives within moments, and medics file in with a stretcher. I recognize all of them, and am grateful to see Fletcher, whom I’ve worked closely with. “He’s mine,” I tell him. “I’m trusting you.”
His expression turns grave and he nods his understanding, and while I already knew he was the leader of the unit, he steps up, listening to my dictation of the events and measures we’ve gone through.
They begin going through their own protocols, taking all of his stats once again.
“Hayden! Hayden!” Ella’s voice is surprisingly strong and clear, and she continues calling out to him until she breaks through the thin wall of people and finds him on the stretcher.
“Oh, babe.” Her hands shake as she moves beside him, careful to be out of the way of the EMTs who surround him.
She swallows, gritting her teeth and willing herself to remain strong for Hayden. “You’ve got this, baby. You’re going to be fine, and we’re going to go home and rest. Everything’s going to be fine,” she tells him.
I step forward as she kisses his forehead. I don’t expect her to look up or notice me, not with where her mind currently is, but she does, and as soon as she registers it’s me, her blue eyes fill with tears, and she has to look up at the ceiling to stop them.
My strides are quick, purposeful as I make my way to her side.
She shakes her head. “You can’t. Not now,” she whispers. “I’m barely holding on.”
I nod, understanding how a comforting hand can cause that skeletal layer of strength to crumble. It’s why I have to leave for a week on the anniversary of my sister’s passing.
“I’ll be right behind you,” I say, struggling to honor her and not reach out for her.
“He saved him,” Captain tells her. I wish he hadn’t. I don’t want Ella to know the details.
“You guys get loaded,” I say, making eye contact with Fletcher.
Fletcher nods, and as a swarm, they get Hayden outside to load him up into the ambulance.
Drake has already cleaned up our supplies, throwing used things into hazard bags to be disposed of, and zipping and latching the other containers.
“What’s going on? What happened? Where’s Hayden?” Patrick appears in the kitchen, sweaty from having been running.
He scans over the crowd, stopping when he sees me. “You,” he says. “Get out of my house,” he orders.
Any other call. Any other patient—I would walk out. Wouldn’t even bother with flipping someone off for speaking to me with so much belligerence, anger, and disrespect.
But it’s not. It’s Hayden. And it was Patrick’s ignorance and stupidity that caused me to be in his house. To live a nightmare I won’t ever be able to forget.
I grab Patrick’s shirt with my left hand, and then use every ounce of energy I have left to punch the selfish son of a bitch in the face. Blood pours from his nose, but like me, he’s high on adrenaline, and he comes at me, his fist connecting with the corner of my mouth. I drill him again, this time in the cheek, and follow it up with a hit to the gut that sends him to the floor.
My brothers are grabbing at us, yelling for us to calm down. Captain has ordered me to stop and stand down.
Gaines has his arms around Patrick. Lance has a hand on my chest. It’s respect that keeps them from trying to restrain me. After all, Patrick might be a firefighter, but I’m the one who has their backs just like they have mine.
“You stay away from my family, you son of a bitch.” He spits and it hits me squarely in the chest.
I push Lance aside and land a final blow straight to his fucking kisser. “Spit on me again, fuckface. Try it. Just try it!” I yell, standing above where he’s getting up from the floor. I want to destroy him. Shred him. Inflict as much pain as he has on Ella. “And they’re not your fucking family.”
Lance tries to put a hand on me again and I shake it off, and turn to the front door.
We ride back to the station in silence. When we stop, Captain doesn’t even have to ask for me to follow him, I already know I’m in trouble. I hit a man. Refused orders.
We sit in his small office, loose sheets of paper surrounding us. It’s the only space in the station that’s not cleaned and religiously organized.
“What happened?” he asks.
I look from a stack of maps up to Captain, my lips pressed firmly together.
“You’re dating Patrick’s affair?”
Pulling my chin back, my jaw constricts as tight as my fist.
Captain raises his hands. “That came out wrong.”
“How in the hell is he the fucking victim when he was the one who was married and slept with someone else? How is he the victim?” I repeat.
“He’s a hero.”
“That’s bullshit, Cap, and you know it. She was seventeen and he was thirty-one. She was the victim, and she didn’t even know it.”
He lifts his shoulders, and the slight lift of his eyebrows tells me he doesn’t see it the same way. “She didn’t need to move here and rub it in his face or the face of his wife.”
“Are you kidding me?” I stand up, too amped to sit. “She moved to this shithole of a town so her kid could have a father, and she deals with people being assholes to her every damn day.”
“They already lived here. They were established. It embarrassed them.”
“He slept with a naïve seventeen-year-old who thought he loved her. What if that was your daughter?”
“My daughter wouldn’t be that stupid.”
Evilness curls my lips. “We can place a wager on it, Captain.”
“You stay away from my daughter,” he says, shooting up from his chair.
“Why? I thought she was too smart to fall for a man that showers her with attention and lies?”
“You’re suspended. Get out of my sight.”
“Gladly,” I say, pushing my arm over the top of his desk and sending the loose-leaf paper across the room.
22
Ella
The nurse applies a thin layer of cream over the burn marks on Hayden’s chest from where they—Coen—used the paddles to make his heart beat again.
Hayden hadn’t regained consciousness by the time we reached the hospital, and didn’t as he passed from the ER straight into the intensive care unit, where we now are. The doctor overseeing him assured me it was normal, that his body was exhausted and sleep was best for him at this point.
Coen appears in the doorway, still wearing his uniform but there’s dried blood at the corner of his mouth where the skin is purple and swollen. His brown eyes are twice their normal size as he looks over Hayden’s monitors.
“How full are his lungs?” he asks the nurse.
She looks taken aback, but answers, along with a short list of additional questions he fires at her about brain activity and oxygen levels in his blood.
He sighs and finally turns to face me. Again, my eyes burn with tears. I’ve already cried millions of tears, yet having him here brings a million more.
Coen walks over to me, and I stand, wrapping my arms around him. His arms and chest are impossibly warm, and the feel and scent of him offer the first wave of assurance since we parted and he promised everything was going to be fine.
“His heart stopped?” I ask.
Coen grips me tighter.
“My son died today.” Hot rivulets of tears course down my face, falling to Coen’s shirt. “They’re waiting until he wakes up to know if ther
e was any brain damage.”
His fingers dig into my hair, and he sighs. He already knows the threats that Hayden’s facing. Knows there are still a dozen hurdles remaining.
Neither of us move for what feels like days, but is only hours. We don’t speak, just watch Hayden and his chest rise and fall with the help of the machines. Nurses come and go, checking on his condition and updating his medical chart. It’s the only time our silence breaks, and Coen asks for updates that they provide to him using too much medical jargon, which makes me feel uneasy and frustrated until Coen translates it for me.
When he explains that Hayden’s lungs are filling and retaining oxygen like they should, I take a step back and sigh.
“He’s one tough kid,” Coen says. “The rest of the scans are going to come back, and it’ll prove he’s perfect.”
“They don’t know how long he went without oxygen.”
“We can guess though, based upon his vitals when we arrived,” he says. Coen’s eyes grow glossy. “There are always variables, but the body shows signs and tells us a lot. As soon as we saw him showing warning signs, we used the paddles.” Coen runs a hand down his face. “He’s going to be okay, Ella. I swear. I wasn’t going to let anything happen.”
“You saved his life.”
He gives a sad smile. “I was doing my job.”
“You saved his life,” I repeat. “And by doing so, you saved mine too.”
Coen’s hand wraps around the back of my neck and he pulls me against him, holding me so close I feel his heart, and his breaths, and the stress of the day in his tense muscles.
“How long can you stay?” I ask, pulling back to look over him again.
“I’m here as long as you are,” he says, cupping my cheek with his palm.
We stare at each other, examining what the day has done to the other. His brown eyes look tired, and the smile that is customary—almost expected—is absent, drawing attention to the dried blood around the corner of his mouth where the area is becoming an angrier shade of purple. “What happened?”
Coen’s jaw tightens and shaking his head, he looks back to Hayden. “It was nothing.”
