Chapter 19
Parker
Imade it down the stairs in record time.
Every step cracked with panic, my left shoe untied and flopping, the phone clamped between chin and shoulder as I ran.
I hit the basement floor on a dead sprint.
The fluorescent lights hummed, highlighting the furniture and happy activities that had been happening here just hours ago.
My voice bounced off the cinderblocks: “Maddie! Are you here? It’s Parker! Shout if you hear me!”
No answer. Nothing but the beat of my heart, the imaginary tick of the timer going off in my head, and the gnaw of fear chewing through my stomach lining.
I scanned the rows of low shelves and bins.
Gift wrap, toys, box after box of bikes in pieces.
I flipped the light switch for the back rooms, praying the power was still on.
The bulbs flickered, barely illuminating the hallway.
The phone slipped, and I nearly dropped it before Wrecker’s voice pierced my ear.
“Parker. Stop. You have to get out. Right now. Do you hear me?”
He sounded like he’d been running—out of breath, out of patience, on the edge of howling. It made my hands shake harder.
“I just need to check the last room!” I yelled, banging through a storage closet. Empty. Just reams of colored paper and a metal cart that must have weighed two hundred pounds.
“She’s not in there,” Wrecker said. “You have to trust me. Get to the stairwell, Parker. Now.”
But what if he was wrong? What if I left Maddie behind, and she never had a chance to see her mother and Bronc again? It would be my fault.
“Gimme a sec,” I told him, breathless. “I’ll make it out. I promise.”
“Wren.” That’s what he called me when he was being easy with me. “Please.”
I ran, every part of me pushing my body forward. Turned the corner. There, the last room. I flung open the door. Only cardboard, plastic, an old air hockey table, half collapsed. I did a sweep anyway.
Nothing. No Maddie. No one at all.
Wrecker’s voice was in my head now, not the phone: Get out. Get out.
I bolted back down the corridor, banged my hip on the doorframe, and fumbled the phone. My lungs burned. It felt like gravity had tripled.
Somewhere in my mind, I could hear a clock ticking. Then I realized it was my heart, racing so hard it blurred the rest of the world.
I reached the foot of the stairs. “Eli!” I yelled. “I’m coming up. You better not—” I stopped. I didn’t know why. Maybe the floor shifted. Maybe the air pressure changed.
I pressed the phone to my mouth, teeth clicking on the plastic. “Hey. If I don’t make it, I need you to know something.”
Silence, then static, then, “What?”
I wanted to say so many things. Things like how much I loved him and that he was the best thing that ever happened to me. I hope I told him to take care of Rocket. My sweet, ugly little pup deserved to be loved.
I know I said, “I love you, Eli. I always did.”
The explosion didn’t sound like anything I’d ever heard.
It was too loud for that. It was sound weaponized, turned to air and shrapnel and pain, packed into every nerve ending at once.
It sucked the breath out of the world, then spat it back into roaring fire and debris.
The stairwell dissolved, and I dissolved with it. Then darkness.
Then silence.
There was a sudden calm. Bright sunlight. But not. Just brightness. A light. And then I saw her.
My mother.
She was standing in the backyard of our old house in Dairyville, wearing a blue sundress I remembered only from photos.
The sun behind her turned her hair to flame.
She looked younger than I remembered, but also older.
She emanated peace. Every good feeling I’d ever known as a child was wrapped up in this beautiful woman.
I ran to her, even though I thought my legs wouldn’t work.
I crashed into her, clinging to her like I was six years old again.
She smelled like sugar cookies and freshly laundered sheets.
Her arms wrapped around me, strong and solid.
I sobbed. I couldn’t believe how badly I had missed her.
How much I’d needed her. She felt like home.
“Am I dead?” I asked, snotty and pathetic.
She ran her hand through my wavy hair. “No, sweetheart,” she said, her voice the sound of early mornings and rain on the roof. “You’re not dead. You’re just resting.”
I pulled back, searching her face. “I don't understand. I know there was an explosion. I was there. In it. I know you’re no longer alive, so how can I be? Did I mess everything up? I screwed up didn’t I?”
She smiled, and it was the saddest smile in the world. “No, Parker. You did everything right. I’m proud of you.”
I wanted to believe her, but it hurt too much.
“I’m scared. I didn’t want to die. Don’t want to die.
I just found my mate. Wrecker. You remember Wrecker?
He’s my mate, and I love him so much. We’ve just found each other again and realized.
And even though it feels so wonderful here, to be able to rest finally, I don’t want to leave him. ”
She laughed, low and bright, her eyes shining. “Oh, I know, baby. I always knew he was yours.” She wiped the tears from my cheeks with her thumb. “He’s been lonely too long. You’re supposed to be with him now, not here. Not yet.” She squeezed my shoulders, gentle but immovable.
I looked past her, expecting to see a tunnel or a white light or something.
But there was nothing but the soft green of the grass, the lemon tree in bloom, the old rusty swing set I remembered Axel falling from when he was four.
I wanted to sit there forever, but I could feel something pulling at my heels, a tether dragging me backward.
The pain started up again, behind my ribs and in my throat.
“I don’t know how to get back,” I whispered. “I don’t know if I can.”
She took my face in her hands. “Just listen,” she said. “You’ll know. And I’ll see you again someday my sweet girl.”
As she faded from sight, I listened.
At first, there was nothing but the sound of the wind through the lemon tree. Then, underneath it, a hum—low and electric, like an engine or a heartbeat.
Then I heard him.
“Parker!” Wrecker’s voice, ragged, desperate. “Little bird, where are you? Wren?”
The hum got louder. I felt the earth shiver. The world started to come apart around the edges.
I fell through the blackness.
Someone was pulling at me—lifting, dragging. The pain was back, worse than before, but it was good pain, genuine pain. I clung to it. I took as many breaths as my lungs would allow.
I heard men yelling. The sound of boots on concrete. Hands scraping at brick and plaster. A crash of something heavy being thrown aside.
“Here!” a voice shouted. “She’s here!”
Strong arms closed around my chest, squeezing the breath back into my lungs. I couldn’t see. My eyes wouldn’t open. But I knew the arms. I knew the shape of the hands. I knew the heartbeat.
“Got you,” he whispered into my hair. “I got you, little bird. Don’t you fucking die on me. Don’t you dare.”
I wanted to say his name, but my throat wouldn’t work.
Someone pressed a mask to my face. Cold air rushed in, sweet and chemical. A hand brushed the hair off my forehead, slow and trembling.
I drifted in and out; the world flickering like a busted TV.
Each time I woke, Wrecker was there, holding my hand. Sometimes he was crying. Sometimes he was swearing at the ceiling. Sometimes he just stared, unblinking, as if he could hold me to earth by willpower alone.
Once, I tried to smile. My face barely moved, but he noticed.
He bent down, mouth close to my ear. “Stay,” he said. “Just stay.”
So I did.
I woke to the sound of my own breath—wet, uneven, a hollow little whistle that didn’t match the rhythm in my dreams. The ceiling above me was off-white and covered with raised dots, the kind of tile you see in schools and hospitals and nowhere else on earth.
There was a tube in my nose and tape all over my face.
The air smelled like sanitizer and something sharper, the animal tang of blood.
For a minute, I couldn’t remember where I was, or even who I was. Then I heard him.
“Hey, little bird,” Wrecker said, voice soft enough not to shatter me. He was sitting in a chair so tiny his knees were nearly to his chin. “Don’t move. Doc’s right outside.”
He looked like he hadn’t slept in a week, his stubble gone from designer to derelict, hair sticking out in every direction. His hands were clasped together, knuckles white, forearms streaked with lines that could have been soot or grease or dried blood.
I tried to sit up, but it was like someone had taken a cheese grater to my ribs and then wrapped them in barbed wire.
“Easy,” he said, and his hand was on my shoulder before I could even flinch.
Doc strode in, a clipboard in one hand and a scowl on his face. Black-rimmed glasses on, looking like a thrift store Clark Kent. His scrubs looked like they’d come out of the wash ten minutes ago. He put down the clipboard, took out a penlight, and flashed it in my eyes.
“Name?” he said, voice brisk.
“Parker Reid,” I croaked.
“Date?”
“Sorry, Wrecker and I are exclusive.” I coughed out on a grin. This guy. My brain was fuzzy, but Doc was a guy who didn't smile nearly enough. Clearly, I hadn't changed that.
Wrecker coughed into his hand.
I thought hard. “Sorry, sometimes I joke. December. Probably?”
Doc still didn’t smile. “Good enough.” He pulled the penlight away and checked my pulse, his touch impersonal but not unkind.
“Where’s Rocket?” I whispered.
“Dog’s fine,” Wrecker said immediately. “He’s with Maddie.”
“Is she—?”
“She’s fine, too. She got hit with some flying debris, nothing serious. Paramedics checked her out. Put her on a diet of grilled cheese. Her words, not mine.”