Cateline.
I shoot to sitting.
Her face is pale in the moonlight.
“What’s wrong? Is there trouble?” I scramble to my feet, ready to take on a mountain lion if I have to.
Her palm presses flat against her chest.
“Are you okay? Did you have a bad dream?”
She shakes her head. “No. It’s my heart, I think.”
I test her forehead. She’s clammy like from a cold sweat.
“I’m dizzy and having a hard time breathing.” Her voice is thin.
I’ve seen the toughest guys injured and sick—on and off the field—Cateline isn’t a guy, but she is tough and just by looking at her, I can tell something is gravely wrong.
Shaky, she lies back down.
Anxiety rockets through me. There is no time to waste.
I grab my pack and pull out my cell phone. Participants in the challenge aren’t supposed to have them and many of them don’t even own phones or other technology to begin with. However, I brought it in case anything happened to me, like a broken leg, thinking Cateline would need help if I got injured. I didn’t imagine anything would happen to her.
I dial for emergency and explain the situation, then send the GPS coordinates.
Gathering Cateline in my arms, I carry her to a nearby clearing. She’s light and limp. I hold her tight.
“Hang on, Cateline. Help is coming.”
She floats in and out of consciousness.
Adrenaline rushes through me. What happened? Does she have a fever? Did she have a preexisting illness she didn’t mention and needs medicine? I’m so stupid for taking her on the Enduro challenge.
The hum of a helicopter grows louder as the long minutes pass. The rest of the challengers aren’t going to be happy and I’m automatically disqualified, but I won’t risk Cat’s health or safety. Then I realize I already did. Guilt makes her heavy in my arms.
A searchlight sweeps the mountains and trees. I grip Cateline tightly. She’s silent and still. If something happens to her, I’ll never forgive myself.
Moments later, the chopper lands, flattening the long grass with the buffeting wind from the blades. It lights up the night as a pair of EMTs rush out, ask a few questions, and take Cateline into their care.
“Are you her husband?” one asks.
“Fiancée,” I answer, praying she’ll forgive me. Praying she’ll be okay. If I weren’t in a helicopter, I’d drop to my knees and beg God for mercy.
Soon we’re back in the air, moving toward the nearest city.
The next twelve hours are the longest and most agonizing of my life. I don’t know how to contact her family. Not knowing the no-phone rule of the Enduro, or even what she was getting into, Cat’s cell phone died the first day. I plug it in. Unfortunately, I don’t know the password.
I alternately pray and watch the door opposite the waiting room, hoping someone will exit and give me more information.
She’s in critical condition.
She’s in surgery.
She’s out of surgery.
That’s all I know.
