He exhaled, a small, quiet sound of relief. “We’re okay,” he murmured. He looked at Wren. “We’re going to keep him still until EMS gets here.”
Tad made a low sound—a cross between a murmur and a groan—and Dane watched his eyelids flutter.
“Hey, bud, good to have you back with us,” he said, leaning close. “Don’t move your head, okay? You took a spill, but I’m here, and I’ve got you. I’m not gonna let anything happen to you.”
The crowd murmured and grew—quick explanations, crying, whispers, but Dane paid no attention to what was happening behind and around him. His only concern was vitals, breathing, and bleeding. He glanced at the blood seeping out from under Tad’s head, it had slowed a little. Mercifully, there was no issue with his breathing. Dane was grateful; he really hadn’t wanted to do a tracheotomy with someone’s penknife and a straw.
He looked up to find Wren watching him, chest heaving, hands still braced around the makeshift neck support. “You’re the guy who runs toward the mess,” she whispered, managing a shaky smile. It took him a moment to remember that was how he first introduced himself to her.
He met her eyes. “Luckily, I don’t need a scalpel today.”
There was something raw in her gaze—fear, admiration. But he didn’t have room for that. Not yet.
The distant wail of sirens rose over the hum of the crowd.
“EMS is nearly here,” someone called.
Dane nodded. “Perfect. We’re holding steady.”
He stayed where he was, hand still on the boy’s pulse, counting each beat until the paramedics took over. Only when they slid the stretcher under the kid, listened to his handover, and loaded him into the ambulance did he finally rock back on his heels and let out a long breath.
His palms were streaked with dirt. His knees ached. His shirt stuck to his back.
But for the first time in months—in three months—Dane felt alive. He looked down to find Wren staring at him, wide-eyed.
“You didn’t even flinch,” she said softly.
He gave her a tired half-smile. “That’s the trick,” he said. “You never flinch until it’s over.”
But as his adrenaline drained, he felt the old ghosts stirring—the memories of injuries and blood, life fading from people’s eyes, and too-late interventions, the people he couldn’t save.
Then he forced the walls back up, and he let himself take the win.
* * *
Silas stayed at Dane’s shoulder the whole time he attended to the boy, aware of ghosts—including Lila, Ruby, and Naomi—behind him, all of them eager to get a front row seat to the drama. But he’d ordered them back and knelt at the boy’s head, resting his hand on Tad’s hair.
Dane took control. He was calm, thoughtful, skilled, and for Silas, seeing him in action reinforced his wavering resolution that the doctor should be back in the field, that treating people on the front lines was where he belonged.
He was too good to be doing anything else.
Lila and Ruby flanked him, both of them looking worried. Nobody, not humans nor ghosts, liked it when children’s lives were in danger. And they didn’t understand it any more than humans did.
“Is he going to be okay?” Ruby asked, worried.
Silas nodded. “I think so.” He glanced at Dane, who looked calm. Gathering his energy, he pushed a little, trying to get a handle on his emotions, and didn’t feel any intense worry within the doctor. He had this under control. “He’ll need an operation, but the boy will be fine.”
Lila looked at Dane, as starry-eyed as a ghost could be. “Will Dane do it?” she asked, sounding excited.
Silas shook his head. “I shouldn’t think so,” he said. “From what I understand, there are other doctors at the hospital who will operate on him. Dr. Trafford is not needed at this point.”
It wasn’t important whether Dane would operate or not; what was of more importance was that he knew what to do, when, and how to do it. His hands didn’t shake, nor did he second-guess himself. Silas had long suspected he was suffering from Soldier’s Heart—characterized by a rapid heartbeat and intense worry, he’d seen it often enough—but when it mattered, Trafford had performed admirably.
Dane was healed. It was time for him to leave Solstice Spring and pick up the mantle of duty. “He’s too good to stay in this small town, to not be out in the field,” Silas told his friends. “He’s needed out there, in places where the world has gone mad.”
Lila cocked, then shook her head. “His skills might be required, but where does his happiness fit into your scenario? He’s happy here, happy with Wren, more content here than he’s been, I suspect, for a long, long time. He doesn’t want to leave Wren. He cares for her. He’s allowed to be happy, too.”
Yes, Silas thought, but what did love matter, what did anything matter, when there were lives to be saved?
