The room is too quiet, too still. A framed picture of him sits near the front beside a closed casket.
Alice sits in the front row with Jett beside her. They’re close, closer than I’ve ever seen them. His arm is wrapped around her shoulders. Not subtle or hidden, clearly necessary. Because her shoulders are shaking, even with his contact. He doesn’t look away from her once.
Something in my heart twists.
It could have been him. Itshould’vebeen him. That thought won’t leave me no matter how much I try to turn my focus.
I don’t realize I’m crying until someone presses a tissue into my hand. I look up, seeing his mother standing beside me. I’m sure it’s her; she has the same eyes as him.
“Oh God, I’m so sorry,” I say immediately, desperately trying to collect myself.
She shakes her head gently. “You worked with him?”
“A little,” I admit.
“That’s enough,” she says softly, accepting it as meaning more than regret makes it feel like.
That breaks me because her tone tells me she means it. Because to her, anyone who stood beside him in that jobmatters.
“Thank you for what you do,” she adds.
I almost laugh because right now it doesn’t feel like enough. “I couldn’t save him,” I whisper before I can stop myself.
Her hand tightens around mine. “They said it was instantaneous, that he didn’t feel a thing. No one could have saved him dear.”
I understand knowing that he didn’t suffer is going to help her through this some, but it doesn’t help me nearly as much. Because I’m still left wondering what would have happened if it had been Jett. Or Alice, Scott… or me.
I’m left knowing that our group and our station are left with an empty locker that no one wants to touch and uniforms that sit stacked in the laundry like they’re waiting to be used.
The next day at work is the hardest one yet. Something within me shifted after the funeral and now every call feels damaging and dangerous.
The first call is minor: chest pain but stable. Routine.
I still fumble the blood pressure cuff.
The second call is a motor vehicle accident. My hands start shaking before we even arrive.
“Liv,” Scott says quietly. “You with me?”
“Yeah,” I lie because I’m not. I’m so far from it.
All I can see is twisted metal and broken glass surrounding a battered rig.
“Liv.” His voice is sharper now.
I blink hard, trying to force myself to focus through it. Focus and work. I force myself through it, step by step, procedure by procedure. My movements aren’t clear; they’re forced.
After the call, Scott doesn’t say anything right away. But I can feel his thoughts swirling. He just watches me drive back to the station.
“You want the truth?” he asks finally.
“Always.”
“You’re not okay.”
I huff out a breath. “No shit.”
“You can take time. Jett and Alice-”
