Page 56 of Ember Rising

My instinct tells me to drop the cover story about being a firefighter and help these people. We introduced ourselves with our fake names, but if I can help someone who’s hurt, I’m going to.

“I was a SEAL combat medic,” I say.

Don’s expression relaxes with relief. “Marine corporal. Oh-three-eleven.”

That means he was a rifleman—those guys are the real deal.

“My brother’s a Marine.”

His brows shoot up. “No shit? Grunt?”

“Recon.”

“He still alive?”

I nod.

Don claps me on the shoulder and leads the way across the room, down a short hallway, into a smaller room. There’s just one hospital bed in here, and when I see the woman lying there, I’m immediately transported back to the Middle East, where I treated burns and other injuries I wish I could forget.

She’s middle-aged, and her hands and lower arms are blotchy and red, with blisters of different sizes, a few of them oozing yellow fluid. Her arms are both resting on plastic bags of ice.

I go to one side of her bed and Amira goes to the other. I slide my pack off and set it behind me.

“This is Shayla,” Marcie says. “Shayla, these people are here to help.”

Shayla’s eyes flutter open and she cringes, clearly in pain. She croaks out, “Hi.”

“Shayla, I’m Brandon Carpenter. I’m a SEAL combat medic. This is my wife, Jessica. She’s just all-around awesome.”

Amira gives me a warm, appreciative smile.

“What happened?” she asks.

“It was a kitchen grease fire,” Marcie says. “She had a pot of water in her hands, and it landed on the fire.”

“When did it happen?” I ask.

“Three days ago,” Marcie says.

I bend to look into her nose. “No singed hairs. That’s a good sign. Any pain in your mouth or throat?”

“My throat’s sore,” she croaks.

“Was anything burned besides your arms and hands?”

“No. My shirt caught fire, but I put it out. With my hands. That was stupid.”

“It’s just impulse. How bad is the pain in your hands and arms?”

When her eyes find mine, I see defeat. I’ve seen it many times in my line of work.

“It’s bad,” she says.

“We gave her whiskey,” Don says. “Didn’t help much.”

“I know it doesn’t feel like good news, but the pain is a good sign,” I say. “It means your nerves are still alive. We’re gonna get rid of the ice because it doesn’t actually help. Do you guys have any honey?”

Marcie furrows her brow, confused. “We do. Will that help it?”