Some days at our small-town firehouse, which was manned by a dispatcher out of Boise—rural American budgetary restrictions—were slow as hell, giving me far too much time to think.
Fortunately, today was not one of them. The seemingly endless minor calls provided a much-needed distraction, forcing my mind to stay wholly in the present instead of being allowed to wander.
Our first call was an elderly woman in distress. She’d fallen and suffered a pretty nasty gash on her arm, but her head seemed to be okay. We patched her up and took her to Dusk Valley Memorial where they’d handle the rest of her care.
We’d managed to eat breakfast before we were called out again, this time to the middle school where a kid had fallen off the monkey bars and broken his ankle.
I spent a few hours in the early afternoon on my bunk with my Kindle in hand, cruising through an MM hockey romance that had me in an absolute chokehold. Around four p.m., Thomas and I were once again called out to the school. One of the high school football players had an asthma attack during practice, so we administered albuterol and took him to the hospital for more tests.
Trey, who was the high school football coach, was there but wisely didn’t say a word to me about the fact that I was shacking up with his brother.
The rest of the day passed quickly into night with a few minor calls and checking on a couple of our frequent flyers—patients who called nine-one-one regularly. In fact, Thomas and I had so far been the only ones called out all day, which was both a blessing and a curse for the firefighters. Blessing, because it meant no structures were burning down, people weren’t losingproperty, and no lives were in danger. But a curse, because I knew they were bored out of their minds.
In the middle of the night, I’d barely dozed off to sleep after returning from an alcohol poisoning call at the Swallow, when the bells went off again.
“Truck twenty-seven, engine forty-five, ambulance thirty-five. Multiple vehicle accident, highway fifty-one.”
As we headed out toward the trucks and ambo, Crew groaned from behind me.
“First, and probably only, call of the night, and it’s not even a fire.”
“Who knows,” I shot back. “The car might light up!”
He grinned. “Appreciate the optimism.”
Dusk Valley was pretty remote compared to other cities in the state, but unfortunately, we were the closest to a lot of these state highways that, especially at night, saw a lot of accidents. People got too ballsy and drove too fast. They crashed into deer or drove drunk.
When we arrived at the scene, a few sheriffs’ deputies—including Johns—were already present. One victim sat on the ground near the edge of the asphalt, hands cuffed in front of him.
“Got two pinned in!” Johns shouted at Crew as he and his men climbed out of the truck. I had to do a double take when the fourth member appeared, reminding myself their little crew had changed since the summer.
The new guy was only a few months out of the state’s fire academy, but he seemed to be working out okay. At least, I hadn’t heard anything to the contrary.
“We’re on it,” Burns responded to Johns, knowing his captain wasn’t about to give the undersheriff—no,interim sheriff, I reminded myself wryly—the time of day.
There was no love lost between Crew and Johns, but they set it aside for situations like this—mainly by ignoring each other.
“Thomas, get over there and assist. I’ll call in reinforcements then check out this guy.”
“You got it, boss,” Thomas said, nodding before shuffling off in the direction of the other vehicle.
Opening the line on my radio, I requested two more ambulances, then headed for Johns, who stood sentinel next to the guy on the ground.
When I knelt in front of Mr. Handcuffed, I did a cursory examination. A deep gash over his left eyebrow was leaking blood down his face, mingling with more coming out of his nose, which was bent at an unfortunate angle.
He also smelled so strongly of alcohol it took my breath away.
The man was about my age, though he looked at least two decades older, likely thanks to his alcohol consumption.
I’d bet good money this wasn’t his first alcohol-related run-in with the law.
I reached for the penlight in my pocket, but before I could grasp it, a shiver raced down my spine, the hair on the back of my neck rising. The strangest sensation swept over me, like I was being watched.
Turning, I peered into the darkness beyond the glow of the emergency lights. Naturally, there was no one there.
“Sutton?” Johns asked. “You okay?”
“What? Oh, yeah. Fine. I just thought…never mind.” I shook it off and returned to my task.
