Page 4 of Burn

Her lips —

Jesus, they’re blue.

FUCK. No. Not her.

Please, God. Not her.

“Oxygen. Get her oxygen, now!” My voice is hoarse.

Paramedics reach us, shoving me out of the way. I stumble backward, landing on my ass on the pavement, and for a moment, I’m transported back to that day in TD Gardens and paralyzed and unable to help my dad, cold pavement rushing up to meet me.

“Step back, man. We got her.”

I need more time.

My gaze falls upon my hands, and I notice how they shake. I look back at her, and I see them working on her. They speak calmly to each other, and I strain to hear what they say.

“What’s going on? What the fuck is happening?”

They’re too slow. I move to take over, to do something — anything — but a firm hand slams into my chest, holding me back.

“Give them space,” Harrington says. His voice is calm. Mine is breaking apart.

His grip is firm, but he doesn’t make me walk away.

They call for a stretcher, and I watch as they push a tube down her airway.

Fuck.

I was too late.

Within minutes, she’s on a stretcher, hooked up to oxygen, not moving. Eyes closed.

She looks dead.

The medic looks at me.

“You’re staying here.”

It’s a statement, not a question, and I know I can’t leave. I nod, and they take off toward the ambulances. My stomach flips, my heart shatters. I haven’t earned the right to be with her.

I wasted so much time.

Turning back to the building, I put on my mask again before running back into the fire.

She can’t be gone.

Please, God, I need more time.

* * *

I race back up the stairs, my boots slamming against the cement, their echo bouncing off the walls. I lean toward my shoulder when I hear the crackle across the radio. McCoy’s voice sounds rushed, panicked, scared. I can smell charred plastic, but I’m unsure if it’s from the fire or clings to my skin from earlier.

“Mayday! Mayday!”

My stomach hits the ground beneath me.

No.

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