“Yeah,” I say. “We’re good.”
She nods. Bites her lip. Doesn’t ask anything else.
And I don’t offer.
We both go back to work, pretending we didn’t just side-step a landmine.
Pretending we’re still on solid ground.
But the truth is that ground’s shifting beneath our feet.
And neither one of us wants to be the first to admit it.
The kitchen has become a war zone over the last few hours. Knives flashing, pans clanging, fire flaring from the grill. Josie’s on expo, calling tickets like she was born for it. Even when her cheeks flush too red and her hands start trembling on the pass, she waves me off when I try to take over.
“I’ve got it,” she says, pushing sweaty hair from her face. “I’m good.”
She’s not.
I know it, but we’re three orders behind, and my line cook just burned the scallops. So I bite down and nod.
Thirty seconds later, I hear it.
A dull, sickening thud. Then the sound of plates crashing to the floor.
I whip around, and everything in me goes cold.
Josie is down.
Flat on her back, limbs twisted awkwardly, like she didn’t have time to catch herself. Her head hit the tile. Hard. One of her shoes came off. Someone screams. A line cook rushes forward, but I’m already there, dropping to my knees beside her.
Everything else disappears. The kitchen noise, the staff, the fucking tickets on the rail, it all blurs into static. All I can see is her. Pale. Still. Fragile in a way I’ve never seen her.
Terror clamps around my throat like a vice. I can’t breathe. Can’t think. All I know is that something’s wrong, deeply, horribly wrong, and I need her to open her eyes, need her to tell me she’s okay.
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t even flinch.
And in that moment, I swear I’ve never been so scared in my life.
“Josie, hey, Josie, look at me. Come on, sweetheart, wake up.”
She doesn’t move.
Her skin is clammy, lips pale. Eyes rolled halfway back, lids fluttering. Her chest rises, but it’s shallow. Too shallow. Her whole body is limp. Slack. A shiver runs through me like ice water.
“Someone pass me my phone,” I bark. “Now!”
I fumble with my phone, hitting Dr. Theo’s number with shaking hands.
He picks up on the second ring.
“It’s Josie. Who works for me… she collapsed,” I snap before he can get a word out. “She’s not waking up. I don’t know what happened—she just, she’s unconscious, man. She hit her head.”
“Is she breathing?” Theo’s voice sharpens.
“Yeah. Yeah, but it’s weak. She’s clammy. Pale as hell. Pulse is thready.”
“Knox, listen to me. Get her flat on her back. Elevate her legs, use a crate, towels, anything. That’ll help blood flow to her brain. Make sure her airway is clear. Tilt her head back slightly.”
