“Easy, I’ve got you. My phone, I’ll grab it.” He helped her lean against the Mercedes, then scooped up her phone from the puddle. The screen was cracked but still glowing. He handed it to her, then retrieved her purse from where it had fallen beside the car. Anything else? Keys in my hand when I fell.
Ethan spotted them near the rear tire, collected them, and locked her car with the remote. All set now. Let’s get you out of this rain. The walk to his truck was only about 30 ft, but it might as well have been 30 m. Victoria moved like every step cost her. One arm wrapped around her middle, the other gripping Ethan’s shoulder for support.
He matched her pace, patient and steady, murmuring encouragement. “Almost there. You’re doing great. Just a few more steps.” When they reached the F-150, Ethan helped her into the passenger seat with the kind of care usually reserved for the critically injured, which he supposed she was. He reached across to buckle her seat belt, trying not to jostle her too much.
“Comfortable as you can be,” he asked. That’s a relative term right now, but there was something almost like humor in her voice, which Ethan took as a good sign. He closed her door and jogged around to the driver’s side, climbing in and starting the engine in one smooth motion. The old Ford rumbled to life with its characteristic diesel rattle.
Ethan cranked the heat up. Victoria was shivering now, whether from cold or shock, he couldn’t tell, and pulled out of the parking lot with deliberate care. County General was 12 minutes away in good traffic. Tonight, with the rain in the late hour, he could make it an eight, maybe seven if he pushed it. But pushing it meant sharp turns and sudden stops, and sharp turns, and sudden stops meant more pain for Victoria.
He’d have to balance speed with care, urgency with caution. The windshield wipers beat their steady rhythm as Ethan navigated onto the main road. Beside him, Victoria had her eyes closed, her breathing shallow and controlled. He’d seen that look before. the intense concentration required to manage pain, to keep it compartmentalized so it didn’t overwhelm everything else.
Talk to me, he said, keeping his voice calm. Tell me about your company. What does Hail Innovations do? Victoria opened one eye. You’re trying to distract me. Is it working? Not particularly, but she took a breath and continued anyway. Tech consulting. We help legacy companies modernize their infrastructure, train their teams, integrate new systems.
Started at 10 years ago with $15,000 and a laptop. Now we have offices in six countries and gross revenue that would make your eyes water. That’s impressive. It’s exhausting. She shifted slightly, wincing. But it’s mine. Everything I have, I built it myself. No partners, no investors, at least not until recently. No one to answer to except myself.
Lonely way to live. Safe way to live. She corrected. Can’t lose what you never have. Ethan understood that logic too well. He’d been living it for 3 years, ever since Sarah died. Keep people at a distance. Don’t let anyone too close. Protect yourself by controlling exactly how much you let the world in.
It worked until it didn’t. Until the isolation became its own kind of death. What about you? Victoria asked, her voice strained. How does a combat medic end up running an auto repair shop? Long story. We’ve got time. Unless I’m dying, in which case you should probably drive faster. You’re not dying, but I am going to drive a little faster.
Ethan accelerated smoothly through a yellow light. The short version is I came home from my last tour and realized I couldn’t do medical work anymore. Too many memories, too much trauma. PTSD is real, and it’s not picky about who it takes. But I’d always been good with engines. Learned from my grandfather who ran a shop back in Pennsylvania.
So when Sarah got pregnant with Maya, I started thinking about stability, about building something that would last. Found a job at a garage here in town. Worked there for 7 years. Saved everything I could. When the owner retired, he sold me the business for a fraction of what it was worth. Called it my thank you for your service discount. That’s kind of him.
It was, though the business was barely hanging on at that point, so maybe he was just happy to unload it on someone else. Ethan smiled slightly. Either way, I’ve been trying to turn it around for the past 18 months. Some days it feels possible. Others Others you wonder what the hell you were thinking. Exactly that.
They drove in silence for a few moments, the rain easing slightly. Ethan kept checking on Victoria from the corner of his eye, monitoring her color, her breathing, the way she held herself. She was deteriorating, not dramatically, but visibly. Every minute counted now. “I’m scared,” Victoria said suddenly, her voice small in the darkness of the truck cab. “I know I agreed to this.
I know it’s the right thing, but I’m absolutely terrified.” “I know. What if she broke off then forced herself to continue? What if I go in there and I don’t come back out? What if my mother’s story becomes my story? It won’t. You can’t promise that. You’re right. I can’t promise that. Medicine isn’t magic.
And sometimes people die even when doctors do everything right. But I can promise you that your chances are a hell of a lot better in that hospital than they are anywhere else. I can promise you that modern medicine is a miracle compared to what your mother had access to 20some years ago. And I can promise you that I will be right there beside you every single step of the way.
