Chapter 19
NINETEEN
GABI
The community center parking lot was already mostly full when I arrived, emergency vehicles and civilian cars crowded haphazardly near the entrance like scattered puzzle pieces.
The hurricane's aftermath had drawn what looked like half the island here—some arriving to offer help, others desperately seeking it.
I recognized old Mr. Henderson's rusted Chevy next to the Monteros' sedan, both families probably dealing with their own storm damage but still showing up to pitch in.
That was Hatterwick for you—when disaster struck, the community pulled together.
Inside, folding tables lined the walls, stacked with medical supplies and bottled water. The basketball court had transformed into a makeshift triage area, complete with rows of cots and privacy screens. The squeak of sneakers on polished wood mixed with urgent voices and the clatter of equipment.
Justin waved from where he was setting up an IV stand. “Over here, Doc!”
Kristie intercepted me before I reached him. “Thank God you’re here. We’ve got mostly minor injuries—cuts from debris cleanup, a couple of sprains. Mrs. Jackson’s blood pressure is through the roof again.”
A group of volunteers hauled in more supplies through the side entrance, directed by the emergency management team.
Some faces I recognized from the clinic; others were residents I’d treated over the past couple of months.
Plenty more I’d simply known all my life.
The familiar rhythm of controlled chaos settled over me—not unlike a busy ER shift, just with a distinct island flavor.
I scanned the setup, mentally cataloging what we had and what we still needed.
The basic triage stations looked solid, but we’d need to establish a better flow for incoming patients.
The mess of vehicles outside would impede any serious emergencies from being able to easily get inside.
And someone would have to coordinate with the pharmacy about prescription refills for people who’d lost medications.
I snagged Curtis Bowen, one of the EMT firefighters, and tasked him with sorting out the parking lot. Then I crossed the room to check in with Justin.
I recognized the grizzled old man on the cot. “Mr. Collins, what’s going on with you this morning?”
The elderly fisherman flashed a shaky smile. “Just wanted to check my ticker after all that excitement. Storm had me wound up something fierce.”
I thought of the less than restful night I’d spent at the clinic with Daniel and our captive. “It did that for all of us. Deep breath in for me.” I pressed the stethoscope against his chest. “And out slowly.”
After I’d listened, I eased back, checking the vitals Justin had already gathered. “Your heart sounds good. Blood pressure’s a bit elevated, but that’s expected. How’s that hip doing?”
“Better since you adjusted my meds last month. Sarah says I’m not grumbling near as much.”
“Glad to hear it.” My brain flipped through the mental list of patients I’d seen, wondering if I knew her.
It finally registered that Sarah was his granddaughter.
Newly pregnant. She’d been the one to bring him in for his last appointment.
“Speaking of Sarah, is she keeping up with her prenatal vitamins?”
His weathered face broke into a proud grandfather’s smile. “Sure is. That great-grandbaby’s due right around Christmas.”
I moved on to Jenny Reyes, who’d sliced her palm, helping clear branches from her yard. As I cleaned and bandaged the wound, she updated me on her son’s college applications.
“—apply for that scholarship I told you about?” I tied off the gauze. “The one for children of commercial fishermen?”
“First thing Monday. Thanks again for telling us about it.”
“Of course.” It had been scholarships that had paid for my education off island. I knew the challenges a lot of people here had in finding ways to pay for college that didn’t involve taking out student loans that wouldn’t be paid off until retirement.
Mrs. Jackson was next, her usually immaculate silver hair disheveled from the night’s stress. Her blood pressure had indeed spiked, but fifteen minutes of quiet conversation about her grandchildren’s recent visit brought it down to more reasonable levels.
Between patients, I caught snippets of storm damage reports—mostly minor flooding and debris, though the pier had taken a beating.
At least two boats had broken free of their ties at the marina and were unaccounted for.
Half a dozen more were floating in the harbor, and a team was being dispatched to retrieve them.
Quite a few folks had lost their stairs down to the beach, and there were missing chunks of roofs all over the island, but it could have been so much worse. The collective relief was palpable.
“Doc?” Justin appeared at my elbow. “Got a sprained ankle over here. Teenager who thought aftermath cleanup was a good time for parkour.”
I suppressed a smile, already knowing which of our local daredevils it would be. Sure enough, Tommy Jensen sat sheepishly on the exam table, his mother standing nearby with her arms crossed.
“So, Tommy,” I pulled up a rolling stool. “Want to tell me what happened, or should I guess based on your last two visits?”
I listened to him describing the incident while his poor mom grimaced.
I shot her a sympathetic smile. “Tim’s pyrotechnics are seeming pretty same now, aren’t they?
” Tommy’s elder brother, grown now, had been on the receiving end of plenty of lectures from Hoyt and the rest of his crew over his teen years.
His failed cannon experiment still got talked about from time to time.
Mrs. Jensen groaned. “Don’t remind me.”
Holding in a smile, I turned to Tommy. “Next time you decide to practice your stunts, maybe wait until after we’ve cleared all the debris?
Your poor mom needs a break.” I finished wrapping Tommy’s ankle and handed his mother an ice pack.
“Twenty minutes on, twenty off. And stay off it as much as possible for the next few days.”
"Gabi!" Caroline's voice cut through the organized chaos of the community center, sharp with the particular brand of exhaustion that only comes from managing two energetic kids during a crisis.
My sister threaded her way between the cots, dodging volunteers carrying supplies and patients waiting for treatment, her movements quick and purposeful despite the fatigue etched in the lines around her eyes.
I met her halfway across the crowded space, pulling her into a quick hug that smelled of coffee and the faint saltiness that seemed to cling to everything after a storm. "Everything okay at home?"
"The kids are driving me up the wall." Her voice carried that frayed edge every parent gets when they've reached their limit.
"They've been cooped up too long, and you know how they get.
" She smoothed back a few wisps of dark hair that had escaped her ponytail, the gesture automatic and telling.
"Logan's convinced he's going to find buried treasure in all the mess the storm washed up on the beach, and Aubrey keeps trying to sneak out to help him.
I swear, if I have to chase them down one more time today. .."
"Sounds about right for those two." I didn’t bother suppressing a smile at the mental image of my nephew and niece embarking on their post-hurricane adventure.
I grabbed a bottle of water from a nearby table laden with donated refreshments and handed it to her.
"Have you been home yet? House make it through okay? "
"Lost a few shingles off the back roof, but nothing major.
Thank God for small mercies." She twisted the cap off the water bottle, her movements sharp with lingering stress.
"Hoyt's been out since dawn with the emergency crews.
They're focusing on Shore Drive first, trying to clear the main routes.
Apparently, the surge took out a big section of the road where it curves around the inlet. "
That was the road leading to the north end of the island, where Willa and Sawyer had weathered the storm at the historic Sutter House. The knowledge sent a small spike of worry through me. "You heard anything from Willa or Sawyer?"
"No, but cell towers are still down across most of the island.
I'm sure they're fine, though." She took a long drink, then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
"You know that old house has survived worse storms than this one.
The Wilsons lost their entire deck though, and that old boat shed by the marina finally collapsed.
Been threatening to do that for years. Could've been much worse, all things considered. "
Caroline glanced around the bustling community center, taking in the controlled chaos of triage stations, volunteer coordination tables, and the steady stream of islanders seeking medical attention for storm-related injuries.
"Need any help here? I can pitch in for a few hours before the kids drive poor Ibbie completely insane.
She's been a saint watching them, but even saints have their limits. "
"We've got it covered for now. The team here are absolute rock stars.
" I nodded toward where patients with minor injuries were being efficiently processed by the EMTs and my nurses, their movements choreographed by years of working together in crisis situations.
"Go home. Keep my niece and nephew from becoming amateur treasure hunters.
Or at least make sure they wear shoes while they're digging through storm debris.
Last thing we need is them showing up here with puncture wounds. "
Caroline laughed, the first genuine smile I'd seen from her all morning. "Don't give them any ideas. They're creative enough on their own."
The rest of the morning devolved into a blur of familiar faces marked by scrapes, bruises, and the occasional deeper cut from cleanup efforts gone wrong. Thankfully, none of the injuries required medical evacuation to the mainland or anything requiring emergency hospitalization.
Ed Cartwright's distinctive grumbling reached me before I actually saw him, his booming voice carrying across the community center's high-ceilinged space as Bree guided him toward one of the treatment areas with the patient persistence of someone who'd been managing stubborn men her entire life.
"It's just a scratch, Pop," Bree insisted, her tone caught somewhere between exasperation and genuine concern. "Let the doctor look at it properly."
"Damn fool thing to do, trying to clear that branch myself," Ed muttered, settling his considerable frame onto the exam chair with a grunt of resignation.
He held a blood-spotted dish towel against his forearm, the white fabric already stained rust-red.
"Should've waited for help, but you know how I get when there's work to be done. "
I pulled on a fresh pair of latex gloves. "Let me see what we're dealing with here, Ed."
The cut wasn't particularly deep, but it was jagged enough to need proper cleaning and care—the kind of wound that came from tangling with storm debris and losing.
As I worked, cleaning the wound with gentle but thorough strokes, Ed updated me on the storm's impact across the island with the authority of someone who'd lived through dozens of these events.
"Lost three windows at the brewery," he said, his voice tight as I dabbed antiseptic along the cut. "Water got in before we got them boarded back up properly. Made a real mess of the front room."
"The equipment’s all fine, and the structural damage is minimal," Bree interjected, her hand resting protectively on her grandfather's shoulder. "We'll need to replace some drywall and possibly refinish the floors, but insurance should cover most of it."
I carefully placed the first butterfly bandage, holding the wound edges together. "Any word from Willa and Sawyer? I know they rode out the storm at Sutter House, but with the cell towers down..."
"Nothing yet," Bree admitted. "But that house was built to handle storms far worse than this one. It's survived everything the Atlantic's thrown at it for close to two centuries. I'm sure they're fine, just waiting for the roads to clear enough for them to get back to town."
Ed winced slightly as I applied pressure to secure another bandage. "That girl picked a hell of a time for her extended honeymoon period, I'll give her that. Though I suppose Mother Nature doesn't consult anyone's calendar."
"There." I smoothed the last bandage into place and stepped back to examine my handiwork. "Keep it clean and dry for the next few days. Come by the clinic later this week so I can check how it's healing and change the dressing."
"Thanks, Doc." Ed flexed his arm carefully, testing the range of motion. "Feels better already. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a date with a chainsaw and what remains of my poor oak tree. That old beauty's been blocking my driveway since about three this morning."
"Pop, absolutely not." Bree's tone carried the kind of authority that brooked no argument. "You're going straight home to rest that arm. I'll call the tree service first thing."
"Ain't no formal tree service gonna be operating normally on this island for at least a couple of weeks," Ed protested, though his voice lacked real conviction. "Half their equipment's probably damaged, and the other half's gonna be tied up with emergency calls."
The sound of their familiar bickering gradually faded as they made their way toward the exit, Ed's grumbling punctuated by Bree's patient but firm responses—a dance they'd been performing for years.
I sat back against the treatment table, allowing myself a moment to pause and chug down an entire bottle of water.
The cool liquid felt like heaven against my parched throat.
They were probably right about Willa and Sawyer being fine.
Sutter House had weathered countless storms over the centuries, and if anyone could handle being temporarily cut off from civilization, it was those two.
I was just feeling antsy not being able to confirm the safety of one of my people, the way any good doctor worries about their community.
Shrugging off the lingering sense of disquiet that seemed to follow every natural disaster, I tossed the empty water bottle into the recycling bin and went back to work.