Chapter 17
JOSH
“Let’s go, let’s go!” I call out, voice bouncing off the station walls as my crew scrambles into action. Martinez, Diaz, and Brett—the three members of my squad—are already suited up.
We pile into the truck while the other companies follow in their vehicles. The bay doors yawn open, and we peel out into the fast-receding darkness of the new day. I radio for more details as we navigate through streets already getting clogged with commuters, sirens wailing.
“Reporting party states single vehicle, sedan, twenty feet down a ravine. Unknown number of occupants.”
As we wind our way up a twisty canyon road, I run through the equipment we might need in my head. I reach the end of my mental checklist just as we pull over at the crash site.
A lone highway patrol officer waves us down, pointing toward a section of guardrail that’s been peeled back like the lid of a sardine can.
“One car went over about ten minutes ago,” the patroller reports as I jump out. “A guy was driving home, saw it swerve to avoid a coyote.”
Mindful of the loose ground, I peer down into the ravine. Metal and glass gleam through the scrubby brush and morning haze. A sedan is resting flat at the bottom. No movement visible from here.
“Alright, let’s move,” I say, turning back to the crew now assembled behind me. The engine and truck companies are setting up a safety perimeter while my squad prepares to rappel down.
We strap in and anchor our lines to the engine’s heavy frame.
“Ready when you are, Lieutenant,” Martinez says, giving the main line a last test yank.
I pull my helmet chinstrap tight and adjust my gloves. “On belay,” I call.
“Belay on,” Martinez confirms, taking up the slack in my safety line.
I step backward over the edge, feeding rope through my descender in controlled bursts. The ravine wall is steep and dotted with jutting rocks and scraggly vegetation that claws at my boots as I work my way down in measured slides.
Halfway down, I get a clearer view of the wreckage.
The windshield is spiderwebbed but not broken, the driver’s door open while the passenger side is pressed against the rock formation.
Ten feet from the car, a still form is draped over a scrubby bush—a woman.
With the windshield intact, she couldn’t have been ejected; she must’ve walked out and collapsed.
“I’ve got a victim outside the vehicle,” I radio up. “Martinez, you take her.”
My boots hit the uneven ground with a crunch of loose stones. I detach from the line and head toward the woman. She’s unconscious, breathing shallow, with an obvious compound fracture to her left arm and blood matting her hair. But alive.
I leave her to Martinez and pick my way through the loose scree toward the crumpled car. Glass crunches under my boots as I approach, the smells of gasoline, hot metal, and the coppery tang of fresh blood growing stronger.
The driver’s seat is empty, the airbag deployed and deflated. The woman outside must’ve been at the wheel.
Movement in the backseat catches my eye.
The back window is broken. Through the empty frame I can see a girl—twelve or thirteen—trapped in the backseat.
Her face is pale beneath streaks of blood from a laceration on her forehead, her eyes wide with fear and shock.
Her right leg is pinned at an unnatural angle, the seat frame twisted over her thigh.
The denim of her jeans is torn open, revealing skin already purpling with bruising and a deep gash caused by a metal shard.
The ripped fabric is dirty with blood but not soaked through.
“Hey there,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “My name’s Josh. I’m with the fire department. We’re going to get you out, okay?”
She blinks at me, tears cutting clean tracks through the dust and blood on her cheeks. “It hurts,” she whispers. “Really bad.”
“I know it does,” I tell her, assessing the conditions. The door on her side is crumpled, the handle mangled, stuck. The other exit is blocked by rocks. I’ll have to get in through the front to assess her before extracting her.
I deliver a quick radio update, alerting the paramedics to be ready. To the girl, I say, “What’s your name?”
“Emily,” she responds, her voice small and shaky but clear enough to indicate no immediate respiratory distress.
“Okay, Emily, I’m climbing in from the front to help you. Please keep as still as you can for me, alright?”
She nods, wincing as the movement jostles her.
I’m careful not to shake the car as it groans beneath me. Half-kneeling on the driver’s seat, I can get a better look at her.
It’s worse than I thought. The impact has driven the broken bar up and into her thigh, but at least the metal shard appears to be staunching most of the bleeding.
I distract her as I consider our options. “Tell me about yourself. Do you go to school around here?”
“Yeah,” she says through gritted teeth. “I’m in eighth grade.”
“Eighth grade, huh? What’s your favorite subject?”
“Art. I—I like to draw.”
“That’s awesome. What do you draw?”
Diaz arrives at the car ready to wrestle the backdoor open. I lose Emily’s attention. She looks down and her eyes widen at the sight of the metal piercing her flesh.
“Hey, Emily, look at me, not at your leg.” I block her view with my arm. “Tell me more about your art. Do you have a favorite artist?”
She peers around me. “Is it bad? My leg?”
“It’s hurt, but we’ll take care of it,” I say, maintaining eye contact. “The important thing is that you’re alive and chatting with me. Now, about that favorite artist?”
I keep her talking while Diaz and the others work to pry the door open.
“The door’s not budging,” Diaz reports after several attempts with the spreaders. “Frame’s too compromised.”
“We’ll have to go through the front and cut the seat,” I decide. “Get the sawzall and a full medical kit.”
Emily’s becoming more agitated, and her breathing quickens as she picks up on the concern in our voices. “Am I going to lose my leg?” she asks, voice cracking.
“No, you’re not. But we need to be careful about how we get you out. I’ve got you, I promise.”
She doesn’t look convinced. “My mom,” she says, tears welling up again. “Is she okay? She was driving.” Emily talks between agitated sobs. “This is all my fault, I wanted to take a video of the dawn for my Instagram, and then a dog cut in our path and Mom lost control. Is she okay?”
I hesitate, torn between being honest but also not wanting to add to her distress. “Another firefighter is taking care of her right now,” I say, which is accurate enough. “She’s getting the help she needs.”
The medical kit arrives, and I secure a tourniquet above her cut while explaining to Emily what we’re going to do.
“We’ll cut part of the seat to free your leg,” I tell her.
“When we do that, your leg might bleed more, but I’ve got equipment to stop it.
The most important thing is for you to stay as still as possible. ”
Emily nods, but terror is building in her eyes. She’s turning pale; blood loss, shock, maybe both—I can’t be sure. Diaz positions the sawzall, ready to cut through the metal frame. “On your mark, Lieutenant.”
“Emily, I’m going to hold your hand, okay?” I say, removing my glove and reaching out. She grabs onto me with surprising strength, her small fingers cold in my palm. “Squeeze as hard as you need to.”
I give Diaz the nod, and the blade whines to life, the harsh noise filling the cramped space. Emily flinches but holds still.
The metal gives way with a groan, and everything happens at once. Emily lifts her leg clear of the shard in an instinctive jerk. With nothing holding it back, blood—bright arterial red—spurts upward in a pulsing arc, the tourniquet not strong enough to hold it.
“Shit!” I let go of her hand and clamp down on her thigh, searching for the artery in the open gush. I pinch it between my thumb and index finger.
Emily screams, a sound of pure terror rather than pain. She looks down to see the damage.
“Eyes on me, Emily! Right here!” I command, my voice firm but gentle despite the adrenaline surging through me. “Look at my face, nowhere else.”
Her panicked gaze locks onto mine, her breathing coming in ragged gasps.
“You’re doing great.” I maintain direct pressure on the artery while Diaz searches the med kit for a proper clamp. “This is fixable. We just need to put a special bandage on it.”
“I don’t want to die,” she sobs, her face ashen now. “I’ve never even been kissed. I haven’t gone to prom. No boy has ever given me flowers.”
My heart cracks open at her words, at the list of things that matter to a thirteen-year-old girl facing mortality. The simple milestones of growing up that she’s afraid to miss.
“Emily, listen to me.” I lean closer, maintaining eye contact and pressure. “You will not die today. Not on my watch. And if you stay awake for me, I’ll bring you the biggest bouquet of flowers you’ve ever seen. Deal?”
A ghost of a smile flickers across her bloodless lips. “For real?”
“Cross my heart,” I say. “But you have to keep talking to me. Tell me what flowers you like.”
“Sunflowers,” she whispers, her voice weaker. “And those purple ones that smell good.”
“Lavender,” I supply, watching Diaz snap the clamp in place above my fingers. “Fantastic choice.”
Diaz nods, and I let go. No blood.
“You’re doing so well,” I tell Emily as we lift her upper body out. “The bleeding’s stopped. That’s the hardest part.”
But Emily’s head is lolling, her eyelids drooping.
“Hey, hey, stay with me,” I say, urgency creeping into my voice. I snap my fingers near her face. “Emily! Look at me. If you fall asleep, I’ll have to sing ‘Shake It Off’ at the top of my lungs, and trust me, nobody wants that.”
Her eyes flutter open, focusing on me with effort. “You know the song?”
“Every word,” I confirm. “My squad makes me sing it at the station when I lose bets.” At least my old team did. I haven’t established new rituals with this one yet.
That earns me a weak smile.
The rest of the extrication is a blur. We get her out of the car. Strap her to a backboard. And she’s ready to be hoisted up.
“Alright, Emily, we’re lifting you out now,” I explain as the team secures the backboard to the pulley system. “It might be a little scary going up the side of the hill, but I’ll be right beside you the entire time.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.” I give her my hand, and she grips it with the last of her strength. “We’re doing this together.”
The ascent is slow and precarious, the team above managing the lines to keep the backboard stable as we’re hauled up the steep embankment. I climb alongside her, keeping a hand on her arm or shoulder so she can focus on me instead of the drop.
When we reach the top, the waiting paramedics swarm in, transferring Emily to a gurney and starting IVs. I step back, aware of the blood soaking my uniform, the ache in my muscles from the climb, and the tremor in my hands as the adrenaline ebbs.
Emily’s eyes find me through the crowd of medical personnel. “Josh?” she calls, voice small but determined.
I step forward. “I’m here.”
“You promised flowers,” she reminds me, a hint of her earlier spirit returning despite the oxygen mask now covering part of her face.
“And you’ll get them,” I assure her, reaching through the paramedics to squeeze her hand one last time. “You made it out, brave girl. I told you we’d do this together.”
As they load her into the ambulance, she’s smiling beneath the oxygen mask before the doors close and they pull away, sirens blaring into the brightening morning.
Saves like this one are why I love this job.
When a terrified kid smiles again and I know she’ll go to prom and have a first kiss thanks to me, nothing else matters.
But this time, along with the rush of pride comes a new sense of despair—that this life I chose will always mean asking someone else to wait and hope, not knowing if I’ll make it home.
Saving lives is everything for me, the purpose I chose, but is also why being with Lily might never be fair to her.