Page 36 of No Hope of Rescue

She’s having a full-on fucking seizure.

“Oh my God.” Riley places her hands under Codie’s head. In the last three years she’s worked with me, she’s never seen Codie seize like this. It’s what happens when she doesn’t get her meds or she’s under intense stress. The last two days, she’s struggled with both.

I rip my headgear off so I can hear her breathing. All I want to do is hold her, but I can’t. Ross is taking us directly to the hospital in Morrison as fast as he can pilot the chopper. Riley’s radioing my brothers, finding out their ETA.

Codie’s breathing is erratic. Her back arches while my heart breaks. She has to come out of it soon. The chance of brain damage increases with every second the seizure grips her body. Just as Riley reaches to secure her head, Codie’s little frame goes limp. Limp. She stirs, boneless, her arms flopping as Riley moves her onto her back again and resecures the gurney. The crying begins once more. This time, her speech is slurred.

“I’ss sorry. I’s so sorry.”

Rubbing the tears away with my palm, I lean over her and whisper in her ear so I know she hears me. “You don’t need to be sorry. It’s not your fault.” I release my tether and stretch out next to her, cupping her head with one arm and trying to wipe the tears away with another.

Reaching up, I flip the heater so that it’s not so cold in the cabin. “Your job is just to be still.”

She blinks and seems to recognize her surroundings.

“I want you to swallow one of these,” I say, fishing out the small metal tube and unscrewing the cap. Riley hands me a water bottle.

Helping Codie raise up even a little is hard. She seems to have no proprioceptive sense and can’t understand where her body is in space. The canteen is unmanageable, and I have to hold it for her. She takes a couple of swallows and then buries her face in my jacket.

“1:15!” Riley shouts. That’s when Codie took her medication. Doctors will want to know. I jut a finger toward the passenger seat, but Riley shakes her head. Instead, she continues to brace herself inside the back of the helicopter with us.

“ETA?” she shouts again.

Ross holds up three fingers. Thirty minutes.

Codie begins to slump in my arm. She gazes up at me, her eyes suddenly heavy lidded.

“So sleepy,” she says, almost apologetically. This exhaustion is common too, but dangerous. We can’t let her sink into a deep sleep before she’s evaluated. But she can doze.

“It’s okay. Sleep.” I kiss the top of her forehead by her hairline, like I used to do when I was eleven and she was just a baby.

Looking down at her, my hand on her forehead, I can’t stop the feeling that she’s still in danger. Danger from something still lurking out there.

Chapter Ten

Riley Delgado

Watching Brock with his sister makes tears sting. I have to blink them back. He doesn’t deserve to see me lose it. The last thirty minutes of the ride to Morrison, he unlatches his own tether and stretches out next to the gurney, his face pale, his hand never leaving her forehead. The freckles on her nose stand out against her own pallor, and my heart breaks for both of them.

The way he is with her leaves my heart lumpy and warm. His tenderness, the way he speaks to her quietly, while inside I know he must be panicked, makes my lower lip tremble.

As the trees fade away and roads appear, then buildings, we are ten minutes out of Morrison, then two. Ross radios ahead. The blue and white circles of the hospital’s helipad stand out on the east wing’s roof. As I point to the team on the roof of the hospital, Brock is already up and preparing to unlock the gurney.

We’ve barely touched down and he’s already moving. As soon as Ross cuts the engine, the rotors start to slow, and almost instantly we can hear each other better.

There are three healthcare providers on the roof. Together, Brock and I hoist the gurney up. Codie’s eyes remain closed, and her head wobbles from side to side. The hatch opens as Ross jumps down to assist. Brock climbs out, and I stay near her head. There’s a flurry of movement, extending the gurney so they can wheel her away, but as soon as we have the gurney handed off, Brock is professional enough to let them do their job.

“We’ll meet you in the ER,” a nurse says—a woman in her thirties with a very direct manner.

He stands for a moment, watching them move her quickly inside.

I reach up and pull down Brock’s hood—a silly tradition after a safe transfer. He reciprocates with a soft tug at mine, his smile weary.

Ross catches something from us in the moment. “You two go in. I’ll go park the Bell and follow up. Unless there’s something else you want me to do?”

Brock shakes his head in answer to Ross’s question and grips the other man’s arm for a moment in thanks. But there are no words of thanks, just an understanding between them.

Ross waves an open palm in Brock’s direction, toward his waist. “Now that you’re here, whatever you’ve got going on”—he points a finger—“get it looked at.” His glance at Brock is pointed. Then he shifts his gaze to me, the accomplice. “You make sure he gets seen by a doctor.”