17. Ozzy #2
“I need help.” His voice cracks, and my stomach flips. “We’re at the fairgrounds. It’s Wyatt—something’s wrong. I don’t—I don’t know what to do. He won’t stop crying, and now he’s gone all quiet, and Jackson’s trying to get everything packed up. I wanted to call 911, but they’re?—”
“Carter,” I cut him off, my tone sharp, grounding. “Is he breathing?”
There’s a pause, and I hear rustling like he’s crouching down or adjusting the phone. Then: “Y-yeah. Yeah, but he’s hot, and he won’t open his eyes, and I don’t—please, just get here. Please.”
“I’m on my way. Stay with him. Keep talking to him, keep him cool if you can. Don’t panic. You got me?”
“Yeah,” he breathes out, but it’s shaky. “Ozzy… hurry.”
“I will.” I hang up, already yanking on my boots, grabbing my keys, and sprinting out the door.
The second I slam the door to Gretchen, my heart kicks into high gear, pounding out a rhythm that makes my fingers shake as I jam the key into the ignition.
The old girl roars to life with a familiar growl, and I throw her into gear like the damn thing’s an ambulance.
Gravel sprays from beneath my tires as I shoot down the drive, one hand gripping the wheel, the other fumbling to silence the intrusive what-ifs spiraling through my head.
What if it’s serious?
What if Carter didn’t catch it fast enough?
What if?—
No. No. Breathe, Ozzy. Focus.
I floor the gas pedal, wind screaming past my windows as I hit the road toward the fairgrounds.
The world becomes nothing but asphalt, trees, and the sound of my own shallow breathing.
My mind races in tandem with Gretchen, flipping through every pediatric first-aid course I’ve taken, every warning sign of child illness I can remember, every scenario that might await me when I get there.
Carter sounded like he was unraveling. And Jackson? He’s probably trying to hold it together for everyone while falling apart himself.
I press harder on the accelerator.
I don’t pray.
But right now, I might beg whatever’s out there to just let Wyatt be okay.
I whip Gretchen into the vendor area so fast the wheels skid on gravel. The second I slam her into park, I’m out and running toward Jackson’s truck. Carter’s in the passenger seat, ghost-pale, clutching Wyatt’s limp body against his chest like the kid might vanish if he lets go.
“What’s wrong?” I pant, reaching into the cab to run my hands over Wyatt’s sweaty curls. He whines in his sleep, and I can feel the heat radiating off his small frame.
“I-I don’t know,” Carter stammers, eyes wide and wild. “He was cranky this morning, but I thought he was just… I don’t know, tired or adjusting. Then he wouldn’t eat. Wouldn’t play. He got real quiet and hot and now he won’t wake up.”
I press my hand to Wyatt’s forehead, then to the side of his neck. “He’s burning up, but he’s responsive.” I glance up at Carter, trying to offer something calm, something solid. “It might just be a virus. Kids get them a lot, especially when they’re suddenly around a bunch of new germs.”
“Then why won’t he wake up?” Carter snaps, panic fraying his voice. “Why is he so hot? Don’t fucking smile at me like this is nothing, Ozzy!”
“Hey,” Jackson says sharply, his voice a blade of calm slicing through the rising panic. “Let her work.”
Carter looks like he might argue again, but he finally exhales and lets Jackson take the boy. Together we walk to the back of the truck. Jackson lays his coat down across the tailgate and gently sets Wyatt on top of it. I snap open my med bag, the zipper’s rasp echoing louder than it should.
Temp: 103.8.
Heart rate: fast, but not thready.
Breathing: shallow, but not labored.
“Has he been drinking and urinating?” I ask Carter, who is pacing back and forth.
Carter stops moving as he looks around frantically. “I—his water cup. I filled it this morning, but did you refill it?” he asks Jackson, who shakes his head. Carter brings the nearly-full cup to me as worry and shame fill him. “Oh my god,” he whispers. “I didn’t make sure he was drinking…”
“Hey,” I say calmly. “It’s okay; kids don’t always drink when sick. He’s dehydrated and has a high fever, but higher fevers are normal for smaller kids. Give me a second,” I ask as I put my earbud in to make a call.
“Hello?” I hear Indy’s light voice in my ear.
“Hey, cupcake, I wanted to talk to you about Wyatt, Carter’s son. Pediatrics is your area.” I then explain his symptoms and his lack of fluids.
“If the place has sugary juice, give him little bits at a time. I would use a syringe if need be. Then, you should run to the store and get some oral rehydration solutions. Monitor his fever, and if it doesn’t improve or worsens, head to the hospital.”
“Alright, babe, thanks. Love you.”
“Love you, too. Call me later.”
I relay everything to Carter while prepping a syringe of juice from the stash in Jackson’s cooler. Wyatt stirs, whimpering. “Hi, bubba,” I coo, holding the syringe up. “Wanna taste? It’s so yummy.”
Wyatt’s eyes open, barely slits, and he whines, turning his face away.
“Look, Daddy’s drinking it,” I tease, shoving the syringe into Carter’s mouth. He blinks, startled, but catches on fast.
“Mmm,” Carter exaggerates, smacking his lips. “It’s sooo good, Wyatt!”
Wyatt watches, suspicious. “Daddy do,” he whines weakly.
Carter stiffens. “Did he…?” His face folds in on itself.
“D-did he just call me Daddy?” he whispers in astonishment.
Until now, Wyatt hasn’t called Carter anything.
He looks from me to the boy. “Yeah, bud,” he replies.
Carter’s voice takes on a watery tone as he climbs into the back of the cab.
“Daddy will give you the juice.” I hand him the syringe and the bottle while he cradles Wyatt like a newborn, his arms wrapped around him so tightly it’s like he’s afraid to let go.
“Don’t force it; just try little bits, and I’ll be back at the ranch soon.”
Carter nods, only half listening to me, all his attention on the small boy in his arms.
“I’ll go get the oral rehydration stuff,” I say softly to Jackson, reaching out and squeezing his hand.
He nods, brushing his thumb over my wrist. “Wish I could come with you.”
“I’ll be fast,” I promise, turning to go.
Then it happens.
A voice with a too-familiar accent—cheerful, unaware—slices my entire body open with a single word.
“Oi! Rowe! Come have a look at this Brumby!”
Everything inside me turns to ice. A high-pitched whine swells in my ears. My vision tunnels. I can’t breathe. I can’t think.
My heart lurches violently against my ribs—and then the world tilts sideways.
Black.
Silence.