“I used to think I didn’t deserve that kind of love. Not after everything I did. Everything I couldn’t stop.” Patch looked out at the water, and even though he didn’t want to bring things back to himself, he couldn’t help it. “I was a medic,” Patch said after a moment, his voice rough. “I was supposed to save people. I did. A lot of them. But the ones I lost…” He trailed off, eyes darkening. “They’re the ones I see at night.”
“You did your job, Patch.”
“I tried. And then, when it mattered most—my sister, her baby—” His voice cracked and he stopped, eyes locked on the far bank. “I was right there. And I still couldn’t save them.”
McGuire exhaled slowly. “That’s not on you.”
“I know that in my head. But my chest still hasn’t caught up.”
They sat with it a while longer.
“I look at Savvy, and I see someone carrying too much and pretending it’s fine. And I want to take some of it from her. Even if she won’t let me,” Patch said.
McGuire nodded. “Then stay close. Let her figure out how to hand it over in her own time.”
“Yeah.”
McGuire leaned back, resting the beer on his knee. “This life… it’s not what we planned. But maybe it’s what we needed.”
“You ever think we’re still in free fall, just waiting to hit bottom?” Patch’s voice dropped.
McGuire looked up through the branches. “I used to. Now I think maybe we already hit it. And we’re just learning how to stand again.”
Behind them, the warm hum of voices filtered through the cracked cabin door—laughter, light, something almost normal.
Patch closed his eyes for a second, and that’s when he heard it.
A low, steady hum. Subtle. Mechanical. Familiar.
He sat upright, beer instantly forgotten.
McGuire shifted without a word, hearing it too.
Boat motor.
Patch stood in a smooth, silent motion and moved to the edge of the porch. The sound was growing—not loud, but close. He narrowed his eyes, trying to pierce the dark along the river bend. There were no lights. No voices. Just the thrum of a small outboard engine moving slowly and deliberately.
He turned toward McGuire, who already had his weapon drawn.
Patch slipped down the steps and crossed the short, marshy stretch of grass to where he’d left his rifle leaning near the edge of the dock. The air was thicker now, the kind of humid that made sweat cling to your skin like a second layer.
“Savvy and Riven?” McGuire asked quietly, coming up beside him.
Patch nodded toward the cabin. “Keep them inside. I’ll hold position here.”
McGuire didn’t argue. He disappeared inside without a sound.
Patch crouched behind a thick post at the edge of the dock, rifle in hand, eyes trained on the bend in the river. His pulse ticked up—not panic, just readiness. He counted the seconds with each inhale.
Then he saw it.
A small aluminum skiff, creeping slowly along the edge of the channel. Still no lights. No splash. No sound but the hum of the engine. Whoever was piloting it knew what they were doing.
Patch raised the rifle halfway, finger just outside the trigger guard.
Then a beam of light clicked on—dim, angled toward the trees, not the shore.
“Patch?” a raspy voice called out. “That you, boy?”
