Page 43 of Rescued
The ride feels like it takes a lifetime. I know it’s less than five minutes. Left on Cherry. Right on Pinehill. Left on Hollow. Three houses down on the right.
I know this town like the back of my hand.
I know the turns. The roads. The mailboxes, even.
When we turn onto Pinehill, smoke fills my vision. Black and rolling.
My stomach drops straight through the floor.
When Arlo’s house comes into view, flames are shooting through the window, the glass busted.
“On the scene,” Austin says, his voice tense and no-nonsense. I try to listen to him as my legs turn to jelly and my heart thunders in my ears. “Fire on Delta side. Possible occupant inside. Search is priority.”
As soon as we come to a stop, I’m on my feet, rushing toward the house.
His car is in the driveway, and he’s nowhere to be seen, which means only one thing.
Almost twenty years of protocol leave my brain in an instant.
My only thought is Arlo. I have to get him out of there. I have to find him. I have to.
I ignore Austin calling after me. Ignore the panic rising in my chest. Ignore the crackling flames and the groaning structure.
It’s almost impossible to see through the smoke as I sweep each room, looking for him. My heart rate climbs, my lungs nearly giving out even with my SCBA. I force myself to keep moving. To keep looking. To keep fucking going.
Finally, I see him. Prone on the ground in the hallway.
I rush to him. Be okay. Be okay. Dear fucking God, please be okay.
Rolling him onto his back, I glance at his face. Black soot is clinging to his nostrils and his mouth. I stand, grabbing the collar of his shirt, and start dragging him through the house.
My knees nearly buckle when I have him in the grass safely away from the house, ripping my mask off as I drop to my knees beside Arlo. Austin kneels beside me, cutting Arlo’s shirt off him.
His chest is still. Unmoving. Austin leans down, ear hovering over Arlo’s nose and mouth.
He’s not breathing. He’s not breathing.
I know this. I know what I’m supposed to be doing. But I can’t. My hands aren’t working. I can’t do this.
I have to.
Arlo needs me. He needs me.
I’m trained for this.
Austin places a mask over Arlo’s mouth, sealing it as he tilts his head back and starts ventilation.
“Jasper,” he snaps, his voice cutting through the panic roaring in my ears. “Check pulse.”
I drop two fingers to Arlo’s neck almost on instinct. He’s burned. His neck’s blood red and already blistering.
There’s… nothing.
I press harder.
Still nothing.
Adjust my fingers.
