Chapter Eight #2
I could almost hear the curses from here.
Carter braced harder against the dash. “He’s going to crash that thing,” he muttered, half in awe, half in terror.
“Not today,” I said, and tried to make it a promise.
We hit the hospital lot in a synchronized power-slide, both trucks veering into the loading zone, tires squealing. Before the engines were fully off, Rawley was out of the cab, sprinting around to yank open the passenger door.
Jojo half-fell into his arms, doubled over and clutching at Rawley’s shirt with both hands. The screams had subsided to ragged, panicked breathing, and I could see in his face the pain had gone from theory to emergency.
Carter and I slammed out of the Dodge, catching up just as Rawley—cradling Jojo like a football—barreled into the waiting arms of the ER staff. The lead nurse, a squat woman in navy blue scrubs, clocked the scene in an instant and snapped into motion.
“Triage, bay one!” she barked. “Someone get me vitals and a stretcher—now!”
The hospital doors whooshed open and we trailed the chaos inside. It was blindingly bright, the kind of sterile white that made every other sense feel muted.
I kept Carter at my side, one hand on the small of his back to keep him from drifting into the action. He didn’t fight me, just walked stiff-legged, eyes never leaving Jojo as he disappeared down the hall.
Rawley tried to follow but was blocked by the nurse, who planted a palm in his chest and said, “Wait here, sir. They’ll let you in as soon as it’s safe.” He looked ready to rip her arm off, but instead just collapsed onto a bench, head in his hands.
The sudden quiet was deafening. We stood in the atrium, the only noise the distant echo of feet and the nervous click of Carter’s nails against the plastic of the hospital bag. I sat beside Rawley, hands braced on my knees.
Carter paced, once, twice, then finally slumped onto the seat beside me. He exhaled in a shaky rush, wiped his face, and looked at me, really looked.
“I’ve never seen him like that,” Carter said, nodding at his brother. “He’s always the calm one. The—” He broke off, shaking his head.
I finished the sentence for him. “The guy who never fucks up.”
He smiled, but it was bleak. “Yeah. That guy.”
I looked at Rawley, hunched and shaking, and realized I’d been wrong: war and trauma don’t prepare you for everything. Some things, like seeing your whole world in pain, stripped you raw no matter how tough you thought you were.
“Rawley,” I said, low.
He didn’t answer.
I let it go. There was nothing I could say that would fix this.
So I watched the door. Every nurse, every orderly, every passing med tech—I tracked them, looking for some clue that things weren’t going sideways. I kept time by the seconds, counted the beats in my own chest, felt the adrenaline cool to something sharp and brittle.
A nurse finally appeared, clipboard in hand. “Family for Joseph Stinson?”
We were all on our feet at once.
She led us down the hall, past rooms full of old men, sleeping children, and the endless beeping of monitors. We stopped at a closed door. The nurse held up a hand.
“Doctor’s with them now. It’s going fast—he’s lucky to have so many people who care.” She gave Carter a little smile. “He’ll be okay. I promise.”
Rawley nodded, and his hand found Carter’s shoulder, squeezing just enough to leave a mark. For a minute, the three of us stood like that, holding the line against whatever came next.
I looked at Carter, at his belly, at the bright wetness in his eyes. “You ready for this?” I asked.
He didn’t hesitate. “Yeah,” he said. “Are you?”
I grinned, but it didn’t feel like a lie. “Born ready.”
We waited, hearts hammering, as behind the door the world changed shape forever.
Hospitals were always the same: a forced hush over raw panic, everything painted over with antiseptic and the faint hum of air-conditioning.
It was a liminal space, one foot in the world of the living, one foot in the waiting room where time stopped and nothing mattered but the next update from behind a closed door.
I nudged Carter toward the nearest row of chairs. He went, but his hand hovered at his belly, fingers clenching the fabric like he was trying to keep the world from unraveling.
The waiting area was almost empty—just a farm couple in their Sunday best, an old man reading a battered Louis L’Amour, and a little kid curled up under a hand-knit blanket, out cold.
The wall clock was set ten minutes ahead of the real time, the kind of mind-game you played with the desperate and the dying.
We sat. I braced both boots on the floor, fists clenched in my lap. Carter’s shoulder pressed up against mine, warm and steady. He didn’t look at me, just stared straight ahead, lips moving in a silent conversation with ghosts.
Rawley paced the length of the room, down and back, over and over, the regular click of his boots like a metronome. I tried to count the steps, but lost track after fifty.
Each time he passed, I saw his hands: one curled in a fist, the other running up and down his thigh, thumb tapping out a pattern like morse code. Every ten circuits, he’d stop and check the swinging doors, as if brute force could make them open.
Nobody spoke. The kid in the blanket snored once, high and sharp, then rolled over and started drooling on the armrest.
Thirty-seven minutes later—by my watch, which I’d set to GMT as a mental exercise—the doors finally banged open and a doctor strode out. She wore purple glasses and a fuchsia stethoscope and didn’t have the air of someone who was going to deliver bad news.
I let myself breathe.
“Family of Joseph Stinson?” she called.
Rawley was on her in two steps. “That’s us.”
She smiled, the kind that’s practiced but not fake. “He’s doing well. So is the baby. Preterm by about ten days, but nothing we can’t handle. You can come back now. He’s asking for you.”
Rawley sagged so hard I thought he’d hit the floor. He nodded, once, twice, then followed her through the doors without looking back.
Carter let out a breath I didn’t realize he’d been holding. He slumped into my shoulder, head falling forward.
“You want to go in?” I asked, soft.
He shook his head, eyes bleary. “Give them a minute. It’s their moment.”
We sat in silence. The couple across the room got up, hugged each other, and left. The old man finished his book, set it on the end table, and shuffled away. The kid’s parents scooped him up and carried him out, blanket and all.
Eventually, it was just us and the drone of the vending machines.
Carter drifted, eyelids heavy. His hand stayed fixed over his stomach, thumb making little circles. I watched his breathing, the rise and fall of his chest, the twitch of his fingers.
I wondered what it would be like, months from now, to be on the other side of this—waiting, hoping, everything out of your control.
I’d been through firefights, mortar attacks, two hellish deployments, and a house fire. Nothing felt as dangerous as this: the sheer helplessness of waiting for someone else to survive.
I reached over and set my hand on top of Carter’s, gentle.
He startled, then looked at me, eyes watery but clear. “You’re shaking,” he said.
“Don’t tell anyone,” I said. “Might ruin my rep.”
He smiled, the small and private kind that I’d come to live for. “Your secret’s safe.”
We stayed like that—hands overlapped, breaths synched—for a stretch of time that had no shape.
Then the doors opened again, and this time Rawley was the one who came out. He looked like he’d been hit by a truck—shirt untucked, hair mussed, a scratch on his cheek he must have picked up in the chaos. But his eyes were clear, and when he saw us, he grinned, wide and stupid, all teeth.
“You wanna meet your nephew?” he said.
Carter was up first, moving faster than I thought he could.
I trailed after, feeling the adrenaline return in slow-motion.
We followed Rawley through a maze of halls to a quiet recovery room where Jojo sat in bed, looking smaller than I’d ever seen him.
His hair was wild, skin washed out, but his eyes were bright, almost feverish.
And in his arms: the tiniest, angriest baby I’d ever seen. Red as a beet, fists clenched, making a noise somewhere between a cat’s yowl and a police siren.
Jojo looked up at us, a raw joy breaking over his face. “He’s got Rawley’s glare already,” he whispered.
Rawley moved in behind, leaned over, and wrapped both arms around Jojo, careful not to jostle the baby. For a moment, the three of them formed a perfect, self-contained world.
I watched Carter approach the bed, eyes wide, shoulders hunched like he was afraid to break the moment. He hovered at the edge, then reached out, tentative, and let the baby grab his finger.
“He’s so small,” Carter breathed.
Jojo grinned. “He’s got your stubborn, too.”
I came closer. Rawley looked at me, then at Carter, then back at me. “You want to hold him?” he asked, and I couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.
But Carter nodded, so sure I thought he might cry.
Jojo passed the baby over, careful, and Carter took him in both arms, eyes locked on the little face. The baby blinked up, unimpressed, then yawned so wide we all laughed.
Carter held the baby for a long time. I watched as his thumb traced the blanket, as he leaned his cheek down to brush the newborn hair, as his other hand moved instinctively to rest on his own stomach.
“Hey,” he whispered. “You’re going to have a cousin soon.”
Jojo smiled, half delirious, and Rawley squeezed his shoulder. “We’ll help you with everything,” Rawley said. “Swear on it.”
I felt something shift inside me—something raw and old and finally allowed to let go. We stood together, the five of us, in a little square of hospital light, and for the first time I believed that the future was something you could build, if you just held on tight enough.
Carter looked up at me, eyes bright and scared and so alive. “You ready?” he asked.
I nodded, took his hand, and said, “Always.”
We stayed until the nurse came to check vitals, then promised to be back first thing in the morning.
Outside, the air was sharp and clean, Montana spring sneaking up on the world with new growth and the smell of possibility.
I slid into the driver’s seat, Carter beside me. For a long minute, neither of us spoke. Then, quiet, he said, “I want to do it right. For them. For us.”
I looked at him, at the way his hands curled protectively over his stomach, at the determination settling over his face like a battle plan.
“We will,” I said, and I meant it.
We drove home under the first stars, the road smooth and empty. And for once, I wasn’t afraid of what came next.
I was ready.