“I need to see him,” I said, my voice starting to crumble.
“Oh, no,” the captain said. “Do not cry.”
“I’m not crying,” I said, as I wiped my face.
Worse and worse. My captain from Austin’s words ticker-taped through my head:Don’t have feelings. Don’t talk about them, don’t explore them, and whatever you do, don’t cry.
I never cry,I’d said. So cocky. Just begging for life to teach me different.
“Women,” the captain said, taking in the sight of me, shaking his head. “This is what I’m saying.”
I stepped closer. “No. Don’t do that. Don’t roll your eyes. Help me get in, or tell me to go home, but don’t stand there blocking the door while the rookie is fighting for his life and act like caring about other human beings doesn’t matter.”
The captain blinked. Then he cleared his throat. Then he said, “Fair enough.”
For a second, I thought he was going to help me get in.
But then he just sighed and said, “Hanwell, go home.”
Twenty-seven
I WENT, BUTnot willingly.
I went, but only because the captain steered me by the elbow down to the parking lot and made a highly compelling argument that whatever had happened at the fire, and whatever my feelings about the rookie might or might not be, and regardless of whether human connection actually had any meaning, the rookie’s parents needed all their strength and all their focus—and no distractions—if they were going to get him through this alive.
“So I’m a distraction?”
“You are a massive distraction.”
“I can help,” I said. “I was there.”
“None of that matters at this point,” the captain said. “Like it or not, the rookie needs his parents right now. There are big decisions to be made, and Big Robby’s not in great health, and Colleen is about two inches away from losing it. If you hang around here, she’s going to go over the edge, I promise you—and I’ve known this woman a long time. Go home. Let them cope. I’ll be here, and I’ll call you as soon as there’s news.”
I WENT HOME.What can I say? The adrenaline had worn off, and I was too tired to fight.
But I snuck back later.
I got home, showered, put on my softest sweats, and lay in bed.
But it was the bed I’d slept in with Owen. Owen, who was now fighting for his life in the ICU. Owen, who I could not bear to lose.
I didn’t sleep. I wound up writing my far-too-detailed report for the captain instead, and emailing it off at midnight.
They were keeping him in a medically induced coma, letting the tissues heal and also offering him the mercy of sleeping through some of the pain. I thought back through what I knew about what happened. In addition to the cyanide poisoning, his airway had been burned by the hot air in the flashover. The swelling had caused respiratory arrest, which led to cardiac arrest—though I had no idea how long he’d gone without breathing. Five minutes? Ten? It’s hard to tell time in a fire.
They say you can only last six minutes without breathing before incurring brain damage, but it really can vary a huge amount from person to person. A fit guy like Owen, I kept telling myself, could amaze us all. I thought about a story I once heard about a two-year-old boy who was drowned in a frozen river for over half an hour but walked away just fine.
The rookie could be okay. It wasn’t the most impossible thing I’d ever tried to hope for.
Or maybe it was.
Finally, at two in the morning, I couldn’t take it anymore.
I snuck down the stairs, past Diana’s white noise machine, got back in my truck, and drove down to Boston.
The waiting area was mostly empty now. The rookie’s parents were asleep on the one available sofa—his mother sideways with her head on his dad’s thigh, his dad with his head tilted back against the wall. Somebody had put blankets over them.
I tiptoed past, and I pushed through the double doors into the restricted section.
