Page 20 of Caring for Cailin

If I get out of this, I decide, I’m going to tell him. Even if he turns me down, at least I’ll know for sure.

With a fresh burst of determination, I start jogging faster.

It’s notifI get out of this. It’s when.

And last night wasnotthe last time I saw him.

As I’m jogging, a new sound cuts through the silence.

It’s a low, heavy rumble, but with a hard note to it. Not a car or tractor trailer—it’s more… pulsing.

At first I can’t figure it out. Then, a few seconds later, it hits me.

A helicopter.

Memphis took me up in his a few months ago, so I could see what it was all about. We flew over the mountains and then to the coast, and it was one of the coolest things I’ve ever experienced. The only thing better was watching him fly it.

Hope leaps inside me. Could someone be looking for me? Could it possibly even be?—

As the rumble draws closer, I spot a glowing red light in the sky. It’s coming towards me; dipping lower as it approaches. I start to run faster, instinct driving me forward.

What if it’s the man at the trailer?my inner voice of reason asks.

In a helicopter?I scoff.Highly unlikely.

But possible.

My steps stutter as the possibility sets in. It could be the man. Or it might have nothing to do with me at all.

Just ahead of me, the helicopter flies lower yet.

The propellers push a rush of wind towards me.

I’m not good with distances, but it can’t be more than a football’s field away, and closing in quickly.

Then a crackly voice comes blasting through a loudspeaker. “Cailin. Stay there. I’m coming to get you.”

My legs go weak.

It’s Memphis.

It doesn’t matter if his voice doesn’t sound the same over the loudspeaker. I know it’s him.

As I divide my attention between running towards the helicopter and trying to keep from tripping, a nearby utility pole brings a surge of alarm.

How can he land safely here? With all the poles and the power lines strung between then?—

Wait. Memphis isn’t just any pilot. He was a Night Stalker. Part of an elite spec ops group whose job is to make daring rescues in places far more dangerous than this. Upon urging, he told me some of the stories—just the basics, since the details are confidential—of exfils during wicked sandstorms in the Middle East and in the midst of hurricanes in South America.

“Wait for me,” he commands. “Stay clear.”

He’s never steered me wrong before, so I do.

At least, until the helicopter lands in a poof of dust, the blades sending whorls of sand spinning out from them. I watch, heart racing, every muscle twitching to run, as the propeller slows.

Then, once I see Memphis leap to the ground, I sprint towards him.

I’m sobbing as I run, my breath coming in uneven, shuddering gasps. I trip on a discarded soda can and fall to myknees, but spring right back up. The pain from falling is gone in a second.