Chapter 2
Tristen
“Pass me the hot sauce, Ten.”
Biting the small cap, I twist it free and spit it into the open go-bag next to me, then dump a layer on Hat’s offered burrito.
Some of it drips onto his pants when he takes a huge bite and lands among the already present red stains tinting the dark blue fabric an almost black.
It’s also dripping down his chin, his burrito-filled fist, and instead of being a civilized human, he just slurps the shit up with puckered lips.
I snort and dump some of the sauce onto mine.
I’m beyond exhausted. Past the point of tiredness where I’m running on fumes and survival instincts to keep my eyes open. I’m covered in blood that’s not mine. More piss. Dirt.
Add hot sauce.
Each breath feels like I’m breathing in sludge and every muscle hurts. My headache is pounding deep inside the base of my skull. It’s taking every bit of effort I have to just lift my arm and take a bite.
But this burrito.
The sun came up two hours ago. The end of our shift has come and gone.
And yet, here we are parked at the look-out, gritty and gross, perched at the open back doors of our ambulance as the rest of the city comes back to life. People flock to work and school drop-off lines. The small coffee shop at the edge of downtown for their pick-me-ups.
The only drive-through burger joint already has cars wrapped around the building thanks to their new breakfast menu.
“Dispatch to ambo-1-2-2.”
“Choo, choo!” Hat and I both call out into the small valley that holds Barren Ridge with lifted burritos and chuckles as we have on every call since taking over this bus.
“You make us sound like a train, Dispatch,” Hat says into the radio attached to the barely-there shoulder strap on his uniform. “What do you got?”
He releases the button and takes another huge bite, only to freeze with a mouthful when he’s answered. “Behavioral, police need assistance.”
Swallowing the bite whole, he meets my gaze for half a second before tossing the rest of his breakfast into the grass and taking off around the rig with me.
“1-2-2, responding,” I radio as Hat throws us into drive and speeds over the bumpy dirt road.
We’re on scene in less than six minutes, loading up the screaming woman just four minutes after that.
She’s alone. Pale. Dirty and squeezing my hand to death along the way, and yet all I feel is nauseous.
There’s no mental health facility in town.
She looks homeless.
Which means as soon as we get her to the hospital, they’ll sedate her, give her meds she probably doesn’t need, and send her on her way.
She’ll be right back in it tomorrow. Either dead or addicted to the things they feed her to make her better.
It’s a garbage system.
One that doesn’t cater to true mental health. It doesn’t treat the real problem. Find a livable solution.
I’m sick as the back doors open and we deliver the woman that’s just scared, confused, and lonely to a group of strangers that prick her the moment they safely can.
It still takes every bit of their strength to pry her fingers from mine, even with the sedative.
To separate her from the safety she found in the short ambulance ride she probably didn’t even realize she was on.
My stomach rolls when they finally break her free, her dirt-caked nails leaving trails of crimson along my wrist.
I recognize the fight. The fear.
The drive to run as far away as you can before it catches up to you.
The slam of the ambo doors sounds far away.
The same trashcan I desecrated earlier stands stationary next to the entrance she disappears through, and it just feels like we’re right back to where this night started.
The heartbeat in my chest kicks up.
Blond hair.
Too-blue lips.
My chest clenches painfully.
Oh, fuck. Not here. Not now.
Breathing labored, I fist the uniform covering my racing heart and plant a steadying palm over the number painted on the back of the rig.
122.
The emergency entrance blurs.
The concrete feels like its crumbling down over me and all I can do it try to remember how to breathe.
Why does my brain not want me to breathe?
I’m gasping, trying my best to stay steady on feet that don’t want to move.
There are about twenty things inside the rig that could end this right now.
Tight. Everything feels tight until my knees buckle and the weight of the shit in my head sends me straight to the asphalt beneath my boots.
“Ten? Ten!”
Something hot touches my chest and I swing. Growl. Elbow at the blur that’s aiming to hurt me.
Everything is hurting me. Hunting me.
Trying to kill me.
“Ten.”
I snarl and scramble away, slicing my hands, though I don’t feel any pain. My grip becomes slick, my vision darker still. Pulsing. Threatening to go out completely.
“No! Leave him be.”
What?
“Tristen, listen to me. You need to breathe. Focus. Hear me. Or these nice scrubs are gonna fucking take you.”
Hatley?
“Yeah, bud. It’s me. Can you hear me?”
I nod, I think, though my heart still runs its marathon inside my chest.
Why won’t it slow?
My face feels wet. Chilled, though it’s hot as balls out here.
I’m shaking. Why am I shaking?
“C’mon, man. Just listen to me, yeah?”
My chest pumps wildly with my breath.
I hold it and it burns.
Feels overfull like I’ve already been holding it. Like I’ve been below the surface for too long and there’s no way up.
Like I’m drowning in my own head.
“Okay, let it out.”
The breath rushes and I’m gasping in the next.
My ears whoosh and I blink back the tears from my eyes.
“And another,” Hatley demands, his stupid face filling my clearing vision. His brow is pinched, and his forehead is lined and dirt-smeared.
I wheeze out another and swallow against the sand coating my throat.
“You back?”
Panting, I give a tentative nod.
“Welcome to your party, fool.”
I lick my dried lips and tip my chin in the direction of his busted cheek. “You got something on your face.”
Hatley bursts out laughing and fists my uniform front, pulling me up to shaking legs. He even throws an arm around my ribs to hold me up as we make it to the passenger side of the bus, Hat waving off the gathering of staff that offer to help.
By the time the door opens, I feel weighted. Exhausted. Like I’ve gained seven thousand pounds and have been carrying it around with me for eternity.
“Just needs some sleep. Running on fumes and panic apparently,” Hatley tells the crowd that watch on wearily.
My half grin is slow and difficult, my limbs near useless as Hat loads me into the seat.
“There’s not even a disco,” I say slowly.
He slams me in and stands on the other side of the window, shaking his head with a grin. I watch in slow motion as he waves to the bystanders, who wave back, and rounds the hood of the bus faster than my brain can catch up.
“I’m not gonna ask,” Hat says softly over the sound of his music playing low. But then we’re stopping and he’s looking at me like he’s concerned.
Why is he concerned?
“So serious,” I mumble through the marbles in my mouth and attempt to boop his nose, but I miss by a mile.
I’m dogass tired.
Is our shift over?
“But, man, you can tell me if you need to.”
My brow feels like it takes a year to show him my confusion.
“Okay.”
He nods like that’s all he needed and hops out of the vehicle like it’s not a sixteen-foot drop—it’s not—and runs around to my side.
How is he so fast?
“You’re like the Flash.”
When did we make it back to the firehouse?
He snorts and hooks a hand around my armpit to keep me steady.
“We’re leaving the bikes here. I’ll steal somebody’s truck.”
Who knew my best friend was a thief?
He really is a good best friend.