“The hospital.” Her voice came out strangled. “They called. My grandmother—she’s—” Her breath hitched. “She’s critical. They said I need to come now. They said—” She looked up at me, and the terror in her eyes made my chest cave in. “Jack… I won’t make it in time.”
My brain shifted into the gear it used for crisis management. Calculate the problem. Find the solution. Execute.
“Yes, you will.”
“It’s forty minutes in traffic?—”
“Not the way we’re going.” I was already pulling out my phone, already dialing Fletcher. “Helicopter. Ten minutes. We’ll make it.”
She stared at me like she didn’t understand the words.
“Pauline.” I cupped her face, made her look at me. “Get your shoes. Your jacket. Whatever you need. We’re leaving in two minutes.”
That broke through. She nodded, jerky and mechanical, and started moving—grabbing things, her hands shaking so badly she dropped her bag twice.
I picked it up. Helped her into her jacket because her fingers couldn’t manage the zipper. Grabbed my keys, my wallet, my phone.
“Fletcher,” I said when he answered. “I need the helicopter ready. Now.”
“Sir, it’ll take ten minutes to?—”
“You have five.” I hung up.
Pauline was crying now—silent tears streaming as she tried to tie her shoes, her fingers fumbling the laces again and again.
I knelt in front of her. Did it myself.
“She’s going to die before I get there,” she whispered.
“No.” I stood, pulled her up with me. “She’s not. You’re going to make it. I promise you’re going to make it.”
She looked at me like she wanted to believe that but couldn’t quite manage it.
“Come on.” I took her hand. Pulled her toward the door. “We need to move.”
Ten minutes.
Please let it be enough.
CHAPTER 18
Pauline
The helicopter bladeswere still spinning when I unbuckled my seatbelt with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking.
Every second in the air stretched into something elastic, my grandmother’s necklace cutting off circulation to my fingers because I’d wrapped it too tight and couldn’t make myself loosen my grip.
The silver locket pressed into my palm—warm from my skin, containing a photo from when my family was whole, from before everything broke. I’d worn it every day since I was eight years old. Since the night a police officer knocked on our door and my grandmother had to explain that my parents weren’t coming home.
She’d given me this necklace the morning of their funeral. Told me they’d always be with me. That I’d never be alone.
I couldn’t lose her too.
Jack’s hand found my elbow as we stepped onto the hospital roof, steadying me when my legs didn’t quite remember how to work. I didn’t pull away. Couldn’t. He was the only thing keeping me vertical.
We moved through the hospital in a blur. Jack handled everything—spoke to people at desks, navigated hallways I couldn’t process, seemed to know which turns to take while I followed like something tethered and drowning.
The fluorescent lights felt like assault weapons. The smell of antiseptic and industrial cleaning solution made my stomach turn over. People rushed past us with clipboards and grim purpose, and I wanted to grab them by their scrubs and scream at them to slow down, be gentler, understand that somewhere in this building my entire world was ending.
