Page 8 of Rockstar Rescue
I’m relieved when the cabin materializes—a shadow against the black sky.
“We’re here,” I say, opening the rear door for my dog. Charlie Boy leaps forward, He joins me as I unbuckle the stranger’s seat belt.
As I help him out, I enjoy the feeling of him leaning against me, his breath warm against my cheek.
I fumble for the key, then shove it into the lock, As soon as I enter, I flick the wall switch.
Nothing.
“Storm must’ve tripped the generator,” I say, helping him to the sofa. “I’ll pop over to the generator shed. Won’t be a minute.”
I cross over to the shed, praying it’s operational. I have my answer when the switch flips with a metallic click. A low rumble stirs to life.
“I’m back!’ I announce, flying through the front door. But as soon as I snap on the lights, I hear a loud crash.
“OMG!” A raccoon, flour-encrusted white from muzzle to tail. stands on the kitchen counter, counter. His beady black eyes glow under the bulb. For a breath, it looks like a spirit caught in headlights.
“Charlie Boy!
With a mighty bark, my dog pounces, chasing the raccoon through a half-latched window.
"Did you arrange this charming welcome committee?"
“Of course I did,” I deadpan.
We both laugh.
“I’ll use the radio to call the station. See how fast they can send help.”
But when I pick up the handset and punch in the familiar channel for dispatch, I’m met with silence.*
"No worries. I have a plan B."
I shove my hand into my parka and pull out a small, hard-plastic square.
"What is that?" he asks.
"A PLB. Personal Locator Beacon. Like the locator on your device’s What's App, but stronger. It can send a one-way distress signal straight to the satellites.”
I flip open the cover and press the activation button. A small red light blinks steady and bright.
Then I force the window open just wide enough to attach the device to the outer windowsill, wedging it against the frame.
"Mission accomplished!" I say, I slamming the window shut. As I do, I see the snowfall picking up speed.
But I paste a bright smile on my face as I turn to him. “Looks like you're stuck with me for now. I’ll exmine you for injuries now,” I say, moving forward.
Seeing the expression in his eyes, I smile. “No worries. I’m a trained emergency medic. But I suppose I should ask your name first.”
“Dylan.”
“I’m Ginny.”
I kneel beside him, tugging at the zipper of his parka. Underneath, he sports an expensive but torn leather jacket, blood crusted at the collar. Not your average motorcyclist.
“You’re bleeding,” I tell him. “Let’s see what we’re dealing with.”
I ease the jacket off him, careful not to pull too hard where the leather’s stuck to dried blood.
