He ran toward her, almost losing his footing.
"Molly," he cried.
She didn't move.
Blood on the ground had frozen into the ice, covered in another layer that was preserving it in a kind of morbid clarity. She'd been out here too long, exposed. Was there even a chance she was still alive?
He fell to his knees beside her, reached for her. "Molly, honey."
She was facedown. Her left wrist was twisted, broken, and he tried to be as gentle as he could as he rolled her over. There was some small voice shouting in the back of his mind about doing damage to her spine, but blood matted her hair and stained the shoulders of her jacket, and he had to find out where it was coming from.
She was still breathing, the slight rise and fall of her chest brought such a sweep of relief that tears threatened.
She had a huge gash at her hairline, a bump bigger than a plastic Easter egg showing where she'd hit her head.
Blood covered her shirt, too, and he lifted the garment to see an ugly looking bullet wound in the flesh of her side. It was oozing blood. He lowered her shirt and pressed his hand against it to try to stop the flow.
How long had she been here, helpless and bleeding?
Sirens sounded in the distance. He couldn't bear to look away from the woman he loved.
"Please stay with me, honey."
Time blurred and flashed as a sheriff's deputy joined him, some kind of first-aid kit in-hand. He tried to patch injuries that needed stitches, not Band-Aids.
It might've been minutes or it might've been longer before a helicopter emblazoned with a red cross landed nearby. Dirt and ice chips sprayed into Cord's face beneath the rotor wash, but he wasn't leaving Molly's side.
They loaded her onto a stretcher, then into the helicopter.
He tried to climb in after her.
“Sorry,” the EMT said. “No room for you. You’ll need to drive.”
He watched as the copter flew away, taking the woman he loved.
