Chapter 25 #2
As Jack did his assessment — checking her pupils, her reflexes, asking her simple questions — I found myself studying Amelia's face, memorizing the details.
The way she answered Jack's questions with serious concentration.
The way she kept Mr. Bear close but allowed the examination.
The way she trusted us completely, even as her world fell apart around her.
"She looks good," Jack said quietly. "No signs of head injury, no physical trauma. But they'll want to do a full workup at University Hospital's pediatric center, just to be sure."
I made a command decision. “Benny,” I called out. “You’re acting Lieutenant. Finish the scene cleanup.” I turned to Jack. “I’m riding with you to University Hospital.”
Jack raised an eyebrow. That wasn't standard protocol — once the patient was in their care, the fire department's job was typically done. But he saw something in my face that made him nod.
"Sure, L.T. We'll make room."
As we loaded into the ambulance, Amelia still clutching Mr. Bear, she looked up at me with those trusting brown eyes.
"Izzy, are you going to stay with me?"
"For as long as I can, sweetheart," I said, settling onto the bench beside her stretcher. "For as long as I can."
The ride to University Hospital was one of gentle conversation and careful monitoring. Amelia told me about her school, about her best friend Kayla, about how she was learning to read chapter books. Normal seven-year-old chatter that became heartbreaking when you knew the context.
When we couldn't think of anything else to talk about, I found myself telling her stories — modified fairy tales where the princesses were firefighters and the dragons were just misunderstood.
She listened with rapt attention, occasionally asking questions or adding her own details to the narrative.
"Do you think the princess could teach real dragons to be nice?" she asked as we pulled into the hospital.
"I think if anyone could do it, it would be her," I said. "Princesses are very good at understanding what dragons need."
At the hospital, things moved quickly. A whole team of medical professionals descended on Amelia with the kind of gentle efficiency that made University Hospital's pediatric unit famous.
Through it all, Amelia stayed calm, answering questions and following instructions with the resilience that children somehow managed even in impossible circumstances.
I stayed until a social worker arrived with news that Amelia's grandmother was on her way from three hours upstate. Until child protective services had established temporary custody. Until Amelia was settled in a room with a nurse who specialized in helping children process trauma.
"Will I see you again, Izzy?" Amelia asked as I prepared to leave.
"I hope so, sweetheart," I said, giving her one last hug. "You take care of Mr. Bear for me, okay?"
"I will. And Izzy? Thank you for telling me stories about the dragon and the princess."
The ride back to Station 2 with Jack was quiet. We'd both seen enough tragedy to know that some calls stayed with you, that some faces you never forgot.
"You did good with her," Jack said as we pulled into the station.
"She did all the hard work," I replied. "I just tried to keep up."
But as I climbed out of the ambulance and headed back into the station, I couldn't shake the feeling that something fundamental had shifted inside me.
Holding Amelia, comforting her, being the steady presence she needed — it had felt natural in a way that surprised me. More than natural. It had felt right.
For the first time in my adult life, I found myself thinking about children not as abstract concepts for "someday," but as real possibilities. As futures I might actually want. Amelia's trust, her need for comfort and protection, had awakened something in me that I hadn't even known was sleeping.
I thought about Jimmy, about the conversation we'd never had about what we wanted our future to look like.
I thought about the quiet domesticity of our morning together, the way he'd taken care of me when I was falling apart.
I thought about what it might be like to build something lasting with him, something that included the possibility of small voices calling our names and bedtime stories about dragon princesses.
The realization hit me like a physical force: I wanted that. I wanted all of it.
I wanted mornings that began with little feet on the floor. I wanted bedtime stories. I wanted someone to call me Mama. I wanted the messy, complicated, beautiful reality of being responsible for someone else's happiness and safety.
I wanted it with Jimmy.
But then I stopped. I remembered our last phone call, the one after my confrontation with Santoro.
I’d been so wrapped up in my own anger and frustration that I hadn't even asked him how he was. He’d sounded distant, tired.
And I had been so preoccupied with my own battles that I hadn't been there for him.
My mind, now raw and vulnerable, twisted the memory.
He needed me, and I was closed off. I failed him.
The thought was a fresh wave of guilt, compounding the grief from the call.
I couldn’t just pack this away. I couldn’t just show up and expect him to fix me when I hadn't been willing to do the same for him.
If this thing between us was going to be real, if it was going to survive the unique horrors of our jobs, I had to be the one to prove it.
I had to show him that he could trust me with his pain, by trusting him with mine.
I pulled out my phone, thinking about calling him, about sharing what had just happened and what it had shown me about what I wanted. But my shift wasn't over, and he was probably trying to sleep before his own shift started. The moment passed, and the phone went back into my pocket.
Later, I told myself. We'd talk about all of it later.
But as I filled out the incident report for Amelia's accident, writing down the clinical details of what had been anything but clinical, I couldn't shake the feeling that "later" was becoming a dangerous word in our relationship.
That the space between what we felt and what we said was growing wider, even as we tried so hard to take care of each other that we forgot to let ourselves be taken care of.
Amelia Rose Patterson. Seven years old. No injuries. Parents deceased. Transported to University Hospital for evaluation.
The facts looked so simple on paper. They didn't capture the weight of her in my arms, or the way she'd trusted me to keep her safe, or the way the whole experience had cracked something open in me that I hadn't even known existed.
They didn't capture the way it felt to realize you wanted something you'd never let yourself imagine, just as the person you wanted it with was starting to feel unreachable.
My hands were shaking as I typed the text. It was a cry for help. But it was also a promise.
Bad call. Really bad. Can I see you later?
I hit send, terrified but resolute. I had let someone see the cracks in my armor. Now I had to let him see what was inside.