Emery
I walked away from Xander with Tucker and his friends, each step more painful than the last, and arrived at the bonfire just in time to see my brother pull his hand out of the flames.
What am I looking at…?
It felt like a dream—or a nightmare. Jack held up his smoldering fist as if he were holding a torch. But the torch was his own hand. Then he fell to his knees and began to laugh.
A scream tore out of my throat. I shoved people aside as I rushed to my brother and fell to my knees beside him. Immediately, two sensations flooded my senses: the smell of burnt flesh and the sound of Jack’s moans. His skin was blackened in some places, angry red in others, and his hand locked in a tight clench.
I put my arm around his waist, and he held his injured arm out of the way so it wouldn’t touch anything. “Jack, what happened?”
His answer was a strangled cry of agony. Murmurs and whispers came from all sides.
“Did anyone see it?”
“I think he fell in.”
“I think he was pushed…”
I glared up at Tucker, standing stupidly, mouth hanging open.
“Do something!” I screamed at him and the onlookers. “Someone call an ambulance!”
“I’ll drive him to the hospital,” Dean Yearwood said, he and Harper appearing by my side. “It’s faster than waiting.”
I nodded mutely as Dean took hold of Jack from the other side. The two of us dragged my brother across the sand, then the asphalt. Harper jogged in front of us, pushing through students to create a path. It took all three of us to get Jack into the back seat of Dean’s car. Immediately the stench of the burn—sickly sweet—mixed with the scent of alcohol from Jack’s breath filled the interior. I was glad he was drunk. Maybe it kept him from feeling all of the pain. Jack moaned a constant keening wail, but I had to wonder how much was for his hand and how much was for his heart.
Because he kept talking about Grant.
“It’s all bullshit, Emery,” he said, half crying, his head lolling on the back of the seat. “For years, they tell us… But it’s lies, you know? They killed Grant. They killed him…”
“Shh, it’s okay, Jack,” I whispered. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
But looking at his hand, that felt like the worst lie.
Dean dove into the driver’s seat, and Harper sat on the other side of Jack. The two of us sandwiched him in, holding him steady while Dean tore out of the parking lot. Castle Hill didn’t have a real hospital, only a medical center, and it was closed for the night. Dean sped north, to Newport. I held Jack and talk soothingly into his ear, hoping to take his mind off the pain and charred nightmare of his fist.
Finally, Dean screeched up to the hospital’s emergency room entrance. He threw the car into park and jumped out. “Help us! Someone help us, please,” he cried, waving his arms.
Medical personnel came pouring outside.
“What happened?” a doctor asked while carefully extracting my brother from the car.
“We were at a bonfire at the Castle Hill Lighthouse,” Dean said, shooting me a glance. “I think he fell. He’s pretty drunk.”
The doctor nodded grimly as they loaded Jack onto a stretcher. Once he was secure, the team hustled him inside, and then he was gone.
In the waiting room, I sagged against the wall. The adrenaline that had been coursing through my veins bottomed out, and a flood of tears swamped me. Dean and Harper helped me to a chair.
“You want us to call your mom or dad?” Dean asked.
“I’ll do it.” I pulled out my cell phone, and it fell out of my shaking hands. Harper picked it up and handed it back to me.
“Emery,” Dean said before I could dial. “I didn’t know what to tell the doctor, or if Jack might get in trouble or something, but you should know. He didn’t fall.”
Harper nodded. “He said something about a train and then he reached into the fire.”
My eyes fell shut and I thought I was going to be sick all over again.
