“The secret ingredient.”
I beam at him.
It’s such a small thing, this flicker of trust, but it feels monumental. A tiny piece of himself, offered freely. A door cracked open a little wider.
As I walk away, I can feel his eyes on me until I turn the corner. And tonight, I don’t mind being watched. I don’t mind being seen.
17
JOSH
The call comes in at the end of the shift, in that dead zone when my body can’t decide if it wants more coffee or to crash after twenty-three hours on duty. “Ambulance 61, Truck 45, Engine 51, Squad 3, battalion 25, respond to vehicle over embankment, possible entrapment, Canyon Road mile marker 14.” The adrenaline hits my bloodstream like an IV infusion of espresso, my foggy brain snapping to attention.
“Let’s go, let’s go!” I call out, voice bouncing off the station walls as my crew scrambles into action. Martinez, Diaz, and Brett—the three members of my squad—are already suited up.
We pile into the truck while the other companies follow in their vehicles. The bay doors yawn open, and we peel out into the fast-receding darkness of the new day. I radio for more details as we navigate through streets already getting clogged with commuters, sirens wailing.
“Reporting party states single vehicle, sedan, twenty feet down a ravine. Unknown number of occupants.”
As we wind our way up a twisty canyon road, I run through the equipment we might need in my head. I reach the end of my mental checklist just as we pull over at the crash site.
A lone highway patrol officer waves us down, pointing toward a section of guardrail that’s been peeled back like the lid of a sardine can.
“One car went over about ten minutes ago,” the patroller reports as I jump out. “A guy was driving home, saw it swerve to avoid a coyote.”
Mindful of the loose ground, I peer down into the ravine. Metal and glass gleam through the scrubby brush and morning haze. A sedan is resting flat at the bottom. No movement visible from here.
“Alright, let’s move,” I say, turning back to the crew now assembled behind me. The engine and truck companies are setting up a safety perimeter while my squad prepares to rappel down.
We strap in and anchor our lines to the engine’s heavy frame.
“Ready when you are, Lieutenant,” Martinez says, giving the main line a last test yank.
I pull my helmet chinstrap tight and adjust my gloves. “On belay,” I call.
“Belay on,” Martinez confirms, taking up the slack in my safety line.
I step backward over the edge, feeding rope through my descender in controlled bursts. The ravine wall is steep and dotted with jutting rocks and scraggly vegetation that claws at my boots as I work my way down in measured slides.
Halfway down, I get a clearer view of the wreckage. The windshield is spiderwebbed but not broken, the driver’s door open while the passenger side is pressed against the rock formation. Ten feet from the car, a still form is draped over a scrubby bush—a woman. With the windshield intact, she couldn’t have been ejected; she must’ve walked out and collapsed.
“I’ve got a victim outside the vehicle,” I radio up. “Martinez, you take her.”
My boots hit the uneven ground with a crunch of loose stones. I detach from the line and head toward the woman. She’s unconscious, breathing shallow, with an obvious compound fracture to her left arm and blood matting her hair. But alive.
I leave her to Martinez and pick my way through the loose scree toward the crumpled car. Glass crunches under my boots as I approach, the smells of gasoline, hot metal, and the coppery tang of fresh blood growing stronger.
The driver’s seat is empty, the airbag deployed and deflated. The woman outside must’ve been at the wheel.
Movement in the backseat catches my eye. The back window is broken. Through the empty frame I can see a girl—twelve or thirteen—trapped in the backseat. Her face is pale beneath streaks of blood from a laceration on her forehead, her eyes wide with fear and shock. Her right leg is pinned at an unnatural angle, the seat frame twisted over her thigh. The denim of her jeans is torn open, revealing skin already purpling with bruising and a deep gash caused by a metal shard. The ripped fabric is dirty with blood but not soaked through.
“Hey there,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “My name’s Josh. I’m with the fire department. We’re going to get you out, okay?”
She blinks at me, tears cutting clean tracks through the dust and blood on her cheeks. “It hurts,” she whispers. “Really bad.”
“I know it does,” I tell her, assessing the conditions. The door on her side is crumpled, the handle mangled, stuck. The other exit is blocked by rocks. I’ll have to get in through the front to assess her before extracting her.
I deliver a quick radio update, alerting the paramedics to be ready. To the girl, I say, “What’s your name?”
