Now there’s music in it #3
“That’s it,” Ghost murmurs. “You’re doin’ great. We’ve got you.”
Within seconds, the paramedics take over, securing straps and checking vitals while Ghost stays crouched beside her until they’re ready to move. Her fingers catch briefly around his sleeve before the gurney rolls back toward the ambulance.
“Thank you,” she whispers to him, and he holds her hand for a brief moment, nodding back to her.
Then she’s gone, loaded into the back of the ambulance, beneath flashing lights and slamming doors, and the tension bleeds out of the scene all at once.
Fletch drags a hand over the back of his neck, and Beck starts coordinating with the police department to reopen one lane while Colt and I reset the tools and reload the cribbing and chocks.
Ghost strips off his gloves beside the engine, flexing his fingers once like he’s shaking the adrenaline loose.
By the time we mount up to head back to the station, the wreck already feels strangely smaller than it did twenty minutes ago.
Colt leans back against the seat and exhales. “Not a bad one, all things considered.”
I glance over at him, but don’t add anything to his comment.
Twenty minutes ago, a woman was trapped in a crushed sedan, screaming every time the metal shifted around her leg.
Her windshield had been spiderwebbed with blood, and there’d been enough smoke rolling out from under the hood to keep all of us moving fast.
But in this job, that still counts as ‘not bad.’ Because she’s alive and nobody burned. And none of us had to zip up a body bag on the side of Route 7 this morning.
The scale changes after enough years doing this, until one day you realize your version of lucky would horrify most people.
Colt scrubs a hand over his jaw and exhales. “Coffee’s gonna taste better now.”
“It always does,” Ghost murmurs, keeping his eyes fastened out the window.
By the time we’re rolling back into the bay again, my shirt is damp beneath my turnout gear, and my shoulders ache in that familiar, manageable way.
The noise levels out, and fresh coffee gets poured. Beck starts his reports, and we rehang our gear and check equipment, reset and ready for the next callout.
I take a seat at the edge of the long wooden table in the rec room and pull my phone from my pocket without thinking.
There’s one new message. My eyebrows jump, because I don’t usually have texts waiting for me these days, but Penny’s name is glowing on my screen. I swipe my thumb to open it and see a photo first.
Elle’s standing in front of the school gate, backpack slightly crooked, her lunchbox held up proudly in one hand like she’s presenting to the whole of Maplewood. Her smile is wide enough to split her face in half. Mine too, apparently.
Penny: First day back success! No tears, and the penguin sandwich received applause.
I stare at the picture longer than I need to, then zoom in slightly. Elle’s hair is tied back neatly still, and her jacket’s zipped properly. She looks brave and confident and happy.
Fletch drops into a chair next to me. “That the princess?”
“Yeah.”
He leans over my shoulder without asking. “Look at her. Wish I got a lunchbox like that.”
“Mm,” I agree. “She even got penguin-shaped sandwiches.”
“From Penny?”
I nod my answer as Colt glances over from the sink. “How was her first day? Good?”
“Good,” I reply, and the knot that’s been sitting tight between my shoulders since Route 7 eases a little more.
I glance back down at the phone in my hand, not realizing I was waiting for that update. But knowing my kid had a good day and looks happy is enough to make me swallow hard, and I type back before I can overthink it.
Me: Good. Tell her I’m proud of her.
Penny: Already did.
Fletch glances over. “You still texting with Penny?”
“Don’t start.”
“You were smiling!”
“I’ll fight you in the parking lot.”
I set the phone face down on the table and tell myself that’s enough, even though my fingers itch to send more.
Colt claps my shoulder as he walks past. “Don’t forget next Tuesday. First game of the Maplewood Cup.”
Fletch grins. “Six p.m. sharp for the annual humiliation of the PD—don’t be late to the rink, or I’m telling Elle you switched teams.”
I roll my eyes but nod and make a mental note to remind Penny.
By the time day shift ends, my body feels heavier than it did this morning. My shoulders ache in that dull, familiar way that means I’ve worked hard, but didn’t lose anyone.
We had two more calls—one a false alarm, the other a small kitchen fire that could’ve been worse if someone hadn’t been home. Nothing catastrophic, but enough to remind me why the job doesn’t let you coast.
I drive home with the window cracked, cool air cutting through the lingering scent of smoke.
Most nights, I brace before I turn into the driveway.
Even when Miss Mabel was here—and she was solid, the kind of woman who always had tissues in her cardigan pocket—the house ran on a different rhythm.
She was brilliant with Elle. Patient and warm, but the energy was older and quieter. More grandmotherly.
So by the end of a shift, there were usually half-finished puzzles on the table and laundry mid-fold. Some leftovers in the fridge for reheating because she and Elle would eat earlier than my arrival.
I turn the key in the front door and step inside. The scent of garlic and herbs hit me first, and there’s music playing softly in the background—not loud and obnoxious this time, but enough to fill the gaps in between the low murmuring of happy voices.