Chapter 5 - Jennie
The first thing I notice is the smell—antiseptic, clean, nothing like the acrid smoke that had filled my lungs. My throat feels raw, like I've swallowed sandpaper, and there's a rhythmic beeping somewhere to my right.
I blink slowly, the white ceiling tiles coming into focus as my confusion recedes. Hospital. I'm in a hospital.
"—just tired, sweetheart. Mommy's sleeping." Mrs. Gunderson's gentle voice filters through my grogginess, followed by a familiar babble that sends a jolt of alertness through me.
Amelia.
I turn my head toward the sound, wincing at the stiffness in my neck. There they are—Mrs. Gunderson sitting in a visitor's chair by the window, Amelia on her lap, tiny hands reaching out toward me.
"Mama!" Amelia calls, her voice bringing immediate tears to my eyes. "Mama up!"
"I'm up, baby," I manage to say, my voice a hoarse whisper. "I'm up."
Mrs. Gunderson's face brightens. "Oh, thank goodness! You've been sleeping for hours, dear. How are you feeling?"
I take inventory—sore throat, mild headache, slight dizziness, but overall, much better than I expected.
"I'm okay," I answer, already pushing myself to sit up. "What time is it?"
"Just after nine in the evening," Mrs. Gunderson replies, rising with Amelia in her arms. "The doctor said you're doing well. The oxygen treatment helped considerably."
As she brings Amelia to my bedside, memories crash back—the cottage, the smoke, trying to get out through the window as my vision blurred. And then...Max. Max bursting through the smoke like some kind of mythical being, scooping me up and carrying me to safety.
"Mama!" Amelia demands again, leaning precariously from Mrs. Gunderson's arms. I reach out, and Mrs. Gunderson carefully transfers her onto the hospital bed beside me.
I pull my daughter close, burying my face in her soft hair, breathing in her baby shampoo scent. She squirms impatiently, placing her small hands on my cheeks as if checking that I'm really there.
"I'm okay, Amelia-bean," I whisper, kissing her forehead. "I'm okay."
"She's been very good," Mrs. Gunderson tells me, settling back into her chair. "We made cookies, read stories, had a lovely dinner. She never showed any signs of distress, which is remarkable given the circumstances."
Thank God for small mercies. If Amelia had been with me at the cottage... I shut down that thought immediately, holding her tighter.
"Thank you for taking care of her," I say to Mrs. Gunderson. "And for bringing her here."
"Of course, dear," she replies warmly. "Max called me right after they took you to the hospital."
Max again. The man who'd broken protocol to come looking for me, if what I'd overheard the paramedics saying was correct. The man who might have risked his job—his safety—for someone he barely knows.
"Is he...okay?" I ask hesitantly. "Max, I mean. I remember him carrying me out, but it's hazy after that."
"He's fine," Mrs. Gunderson assures me. "Called me about an hour ago to check on you again. Said he'd injured his shoulder a bit, but nothing serious."
He was injured? Because of me? I don't want to be responsible for anyone else's pain, especially not someone who was just doing his job—even if he went above and beyond it.
"He shouldn't have—" I start, then stop myself. What exactly am I trying to say? That he shouldn't have saved me? That seems ungrateful at best, ridiculous at worst.
Mrs. Gunderson regards me with understanding. "Max has always been one to follow his instincts rather than rules when it really matters," she says. "Been that way since he was in my sophomore English class. Some things never change."
I adjust my position, letting Amelia sit more comfortably beside me. She's already exploring the hospital bed, fascinated by the buttons on the side rail.
"I barely know him," I murmur, more to myself than to Mrs. Gunderson. "Why would he risk himself like that?"
"Because that's who he is," she replies simply. "A good man who couldn't live with himself if he didn't try."
A knock at the door interrupts our conversation. Mrs. Gunderson and I look up, and my heart skips a beat.
Max stands in the doorway, wearing a tight black t-shirt that highlights his broad shoulders and athletic build. His dark hair is damp, as if recently showered, and there are shadows of fatigue under his eyes. Despite this, or perhaps because of it, he looks impossibly attractive—and worried.
"Sorry to interrupt," he says, his deep voice sending a shiver through me. "I just wanted to see how you were doing. Can I come in?"
Before I can formulate a response, Mrs. Gunderson is already on her feet, beaming. "Max Davidson! Perfect timing. Jennie just woke up, and I was about to go find some decent coffee in this place." She gathers her purse and sweater, then looks at me meaningfully. "I'll take Amelia for a little walk too, give you two a chance to talk."
"Oh, that's not necessary—" I begin, suddenly nervous at the prospect of being alone with Max.
"It's absolutely necessary," Mrs. Gunderson insists in a whisper as she leans down to collect Amelia from the bed. "Max is one of the most decent men in Cedar Falls. If he's here, it's because you mean something to him. And a man like that doesn't come along every day, dear."
Before I can protest further, she's scooped up Amelia, who's too distracted by a plastic bracelet on Mrs. Gunderson's wrist to object to leaving my side.
"We'll be back in twenty minutes or so," Mrs. Gunderson announces, moving toward the door where Max still stands. "Don't tire her out, Max. Doctor's orders."
"Yes, ma'am," he replies with a small smile, stepping aside to let her pass. As Amelia goes by in Mrs. Gunderson's arms, she reaches out toward Max with a delighted "Faya!"
Max chuckles, catching one of her tiny hands briefly. "Hey there, squirt. Being good for Mrs. G?"
And then they're gone, and it's just Max and me in the hospital room, the silence broken only by the steady beep of monitors.
I want to tell him not to come in, to maintain the distance that's kept me safe these past months. But he's already moving toward the bed, his slight limp and the careful way he holds his left shoulder reminding me that he was hurt while saving me. The least I can do is hear him out.
Besides, a traitorous part of my brain whispers, he really does look gorgeous in that shirt.
"You look better," he says, settling into the chair Mrs. Gunderson vacated. "How are you feeling?"
"Like I inhaled a campfire," I reply honestly. "But much better than I could be, thanks to you."
He shrugs, then winces slightly at the movement. "Just doing my job."
"Is that what they call disobeying direct orders these days?" I ask, surprising myself with the boldness. "I heard the paramedics talking. You weren't supposed to come looking for me yourself."
A faint flush creeps up his neck. "You weren't supposed to hear that."
"But I did," I persist. "So, why did you?"
Max sighs, running a hand through his damp hair. "I don't know. When I heard you might be in the cottage, I just... reacted. Couldn't let someone else handle it."
"We hardly know each other," I point out.
His blue eyes meet mine directly. "I know enough."
What exactly does he think he knows about me? And why does the possibility both terrify and exhilarate me?
"How's your shoulder?" I ask, changing the subject.
"Mild sprain," he answers. "Nothing serious. Had worse falling out of bed." His easy smile returns, dialing down the intensity of the moment. "How about you? What did the doctors say?"
"Mild smoke inhalation, no lasting damage expected. They're keeping me overnight for observation, but I should be discharged tomorrow."
He nods, clearly relieved. "Good. That's good." He leans forward slightly. "Listen, about the cottage—"
"Is it still standing?" I interrupt, suddenly remembering the reason I was there in the first place.
"It is," he confirms. “There is minor smoke damage to the exterior, but the interior is untouched. Mrs. Beaumont is in this same hospital, two floors up. She's already asking about you; she wanted to make sure you were okay."
"She is?" I'm genuinely surprised. "But her house—"
"Is insured," Max finishes. "And can be repaired. She's more concerned about you and whether you still want the cottage."
I stare at him, bewildered by the kindness of these Cedar Falls people. "I was a stranger looking at a rental property. Why would she care about me after losing her home?"
Max's expression softens. "That's just how it is here. People look out for each other."
"I'm not used to that," I admit quietly.
"Where were you before Cedar Falls?" he asks. "If you don't mind me asking."
I hesitate. I've been so careful not to share details of my past, my journey. But there's something about Max—the way he risked himself for me, the genuine concern in his eyes—that makes me want to lower my guard just a little.
"A few smaller towns,” I say. "We've been... moving around."
Max nods, not pushing for more, but I suddenly want to give him something real, some piece of truth.
"I left my ex," I continue, my voice dropping. "Derek. He wasn't... he wasn't good for us. It started with screaming and controlling behavior, then escalated to slapping me around. The night I left, he was drunk and raised his fist near Amelia's crib. I grabbed her and ran."
Understanding dawns in Max's eyes, but there's no pity—just a quiet, controlled anger that isn't directed at me. "And you've been on the move since then?"
"Three towns in five months," I confirm. "Cedar Falls is stop number four."
"Are you planning to keep moving?" he asks, the question casual but his eyes intent.
I hesitate again. "I don't know. This was supposed to be temporary, just another stop. But..."
"But?"
"But Amelia seems happy here," I say, which is true, but not the whole truth. The whole truth includes the way the town has welcomed us, how Mrs. Gunderson has embraced Amelia, how Lou gave me a chance without questions. And it includes the firefighter sitting beside my hospital bed, who came looking for me when he didn't have to.
"Cedar Falls has that effect on people," Max says with a small smile. "It grows on you."
"Is that what happened to you?" I ask, genuinely curious.
"I ended up here when I was younger. Ran away from home in Ridgefield, about sixty miles south."
"Fifteen, right?" I ask him, remembering him saying he was that age when he arrived in Cedar Falls. "That's so young."
Max is quiet for a moment, seeming to debate with himself. Then he sighs and leans back in his chair.
"Old enough to know I couldn't take another beating," he finally says. "My father was... well, he had a fondness for using his fists when he'd been drinking. Which was most days."
The confession hits me hard, resonating with my own experiences in a way I hadn't expected. "I'm sorry," I say softly. "That must have been terrible."
"It was what it was," he shrugs, his casual tone belied by the tension in his jaw. "Got on a bus with about forty dollars to my name and a backpack of clothes. Ended up here by chance—bus stopped for a lunch break and I just... didn't get back on. Slept wherever I could find—parks, abandoned buildings, behind the grocery store when it rained."
"How did you survive?" I ask, imagining a teenage Max, alone and vulnerable.
A small, genuine smile appears. "I was hanging around the wrong crowd, getting into minor trouble—nothing serious, but heading that way. One night, we were drinking in the park after hours, and the cops showed up. Everyone scattered, but I twisted my ankle jumping a fence. Brock was already Chief then, doing a ride-along with the cops as part of some community program. Instead of letting them arrest me, he took me to the station—the fire station, not the police station."
Max's voice has taken on a reminiscent quality, like he's seeing it all again. "He sat me down, gave me food, and told me I had two choices: keep spiraling until I ended up just like my old man, or get my act together and make something of myself. Said I could sleep on the station couch that night, and in the morning, we'd figure out the next steps."
"And you chose option two," I say, already knowing the answer.
"Not right away," Max admits. "Told him to go to hell, actually. But the next morning, when I tried to sneak out before sunrise, he was waiting. Had breakfast ready and a proposition—I could work odd jobs around the station in exchange for a cot in the storage room and meals. Best offer I'd had in months."
"He sounds like a good man," I observe.
Max nods. "Changed my life. Gave me stability, structure, a way forward. When I was eighteen, he sponsored me for the fire academy. The guys at the station became the family I never had."
I absorb his story, struck by the parallels to my own journey—the escape from violence, the uncertainty, the search for safety and meaning. The difference is that Max found his place, his purpose. I'm still searching.
"Thank you for telling me that," I say sincerely. "For trusting me with it."
"Fair exchange," he replies with a small smile. "You trusted me with a piece of your story. And you know," Max continues, his tone shifting to something more self-deprecating, "most people around here see me as some kind of perpetual playboy. Always ready for a good time, never serious about anything or anyone."
"And is that accurate?" I ask, curious about this new angle.
He considers the question. "It was, for a long time. After growing up with no freedom, I went all in on doing whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. No commitments, no expectations, no one to answer to except Brock when I'm on shift."
I nod, understanding the appeal of that kind of freedom after feeling trapped.
"But lately..." he continues, looking slightly embarrassed, "I don't know. My best friend, Ethan—he's a cowboy, one of the 5 Covington brothers, very well known in Cedar Falls—started dating this girl about a month ago. I've never seen him so happy, so... content." Max shakes his head, as if surprised by his own thoughts. "And I find myself envying that. Wondering what it would be like."
"To be in a relationship?" I clarify.
"To have something real," he corrects. "Something that matters. Then I wonder if I even deserve that, given how I've lived, how I've treated relationships as disposable."
His vulnerability catches me off guard. This confident firefighter, this hero who rushed into a burning building to save me, is sitting here questioning his worthiness for happiness.
"Of course you deserve it," I say with unexpected fierceness. "You're a good man, Max. A hero." I feel my cheeks warm as the word slips out, but I don't take it back. "Anyone would be lucky to have you care about them."
His eyes meet mine, surprise and something warmer reflected there. "I don't know about the hero part," he says softly. "But thank you."
Before I can respond, there's a light knock at the door, and Mrs. Gunderson peeks in, Amelia in her arms. "Is it safe to come back?" she asks with a knowing smile.
"Of course," I reply, suddenly aware of how intently Max and I have been gazing at each other.
Amelia squirms to be put down as soon as she sees me, and Mrs. Gunderson obliges, setting her on the floor. My daughter immediately toddles to the side of the bed, arms raised in the universal "pick me up" demand.
Max stands to lift her onto the bed, his movements careful but sure.
"Up you go, squirt," he says, settling her beside me. His hands linger for just a moment, and I catch a flash of something in his eyes as he looks at Amelia—a softness, a warmth that makes my heart skip.
"I should probably get going," he says, straightening. "Let you rest."
"Yes, you both need your rest," Mrs. Gunderson agrees. "I'll stay with Jennie and Amelia tonight—the nurse brought in a cot for me. And I've already spoken to Ethel upstairs. The cottage is yours whenever you're ready, Jennie."
I blink back sudden tears. "Thank you," I manage. "Both of you."
Max nods, his eyes meeting mine one more time. "I'll check on you tomorrow," he says. "If that's okay."
"I'd like that," I reply, surprising myself with how much I mean it.
As he turns to leave, Amelia calls out "Bye-bye, faya!" waving her small hand enthusiastically.
Max chuckles.
"Bye-bye, Amelia," he responds. "Take care of your mama."
And then he's gone, leaving me with the distinct sensation that something fundamental has shifted between us.
"He's a good one," Mrs. Gunderson says softly, watching me watch the doorway where Max disappeared. "Always has been, even when he was doing his best to convince everyone otherwise."
I settle back against the pillows, gathering Amelia close as she begins to play with my hospital bracelet.
"He told me about when he first came to Cedar Falls," I say. "About his father."
Mrs. Gunderson nods. "It wasn't an easy road for him. That boy has more resilience than anyone I've ever met." She gives me a significant look. "Like someone else I've recently met."
I flush under her knowing gaze. "I'm just trying to do what's best for Amelia."
"Of course you are, dear," she agrees. "And you're doing a magnificent job. But don't forget that what's best for Amelia includes having a mother who allows herself some happiness, too."
Her words strike a chord I've been avoiding. For so long, it's been about survival, about safety. The idea of personal happiness seemed like a luxury I couldn't afford, a distraction from my primary purpose of protecting Amelia.
But as I lie here in this hospital bed, my daughter safe beside me, in a town where people have shown us nothing but kindness, I allow myself to consider the possibility. Could we find more than just safety here? Could we find a real home, a real life?
And could that life possibly include the blue-eyed firefighter who carried me from danger without a second thought? The man who seems to be searching for something meaningful, just as I am?
I push the question away, not ready to examine it too closely. One step at a time. Get discharged. Move into the cottage. Focus on the job at Lou's. Establish stability for Amelia.
Everything else—including my unexpected reaction to Max Davidson—can wait.
But as I drift toward sleep, Amelia's warm weight against my side and Mrs. Gunderson knitting quietly in the chair, fragments of the day replay in my mind: smoke and fear, strong arms lifting me, the solid beat of a heart against my ear as I was carried to safety, the relief in blue eyes when I opened mine.
My hero, whether I wanted one or not.