“I can help,” I said. “I was there.”

“None of that matters at this point,” the captain said. “Like it or not, the rookie needs his parents right now. There are big decisions to be made, and Big Robby’s not in great health, and Colleen is about two inches away from losing it. If you hang around here, she’s going to go over the edge, I promise you—and I’ve known this woman a long time. Go home. Let them cope. I’ll be here, and I’ll call you as soon as there’s news.”

* * *

I WENT HOME. What can I say? The adrenaline had worn off, and I was too tired to fight.

But I snuck back later.

I got home, showered, put on my softest sweats, and lay in bed.

But it was the bed I’d slept in with Owen. Owen, who was now fighting for his life in the ICU. Owen, who I could not bear to lose.

I didn’t sleep. I wound up writing my far-too-detailed report for the captain instead, and emailing it off at midnight.

They were keeping him in a medically induced coma, letting the tissues heal and also offering him the mercy of sleeping through some of the pain. I thought back through what I knew about what happened. In addition to the cyanide poisoning, his airway had been burned by the hot air in the flashover. The swelling had caused respiratory arrest, which led to cardiac arrest—though I had no idea how long he’d gone without breathing. Five minutes? Ten? It’s hard to tell time in a fire.

They say you can only last six minutes without breathing before incurring brain damage, but it really can vary a huge amount from person to person. A fit guy like Owen, I kept telling myself, could amaze us all. I thought about a story I once heard about a two-year-old boy who was drowned in a frozen river for over half an hour but walked away just fine.

The rookie could be okay. It wasn’t the most impossible thing I’d ever tried to hope for.

Or maybe it was.

Finally, at two in the morning, I couldn’t take it anymore.

I snuck down the stairs, past Diana’s white noise machine, got back in my truck, and drove down to Boston.

The waiting area was mostly empty now. The rookie’s parents were asleep on the one available sofa—his mother sideways with her head on his dad’s thigh, his dad with his head tilted back against the wall. Somebody had put blankets over them.

I tiptoed past, and I pushed through the double doors into the restricted section.

There are no rooms in the ICU, just beds separated by curtains. I checked one chart after another until I saw CALLAGHAN. But before I could slide the curtain back, a nurse stopped me.

“No visitors at this hour,” she said, slipping between me and the curtain.

“Hi. Yes, I just—”

“You’ll have to come back tomorrow.” She looked me over. “And then only if you’re family.”

How to describe myself. “I’m his girlfriend,” I said.

“Then you can come during visiting hours.”

“It’s complicated,” I said. “I’m not sure I can.”

She stepped back and looked me over. “You’re his mistress?”

“No!”

“But his family doesn’t like you?”

I sighed. “They think I’m the reason he’s in here.”

Her eyebrows went up, like, Are you?

“But I’m not! I’m the one who saved him!”

I was ready to launch into the whole story—but one look at her face told me she didn’t want the story. She had work to do, and she needed the person breaking the rules to get out of the way.

Instead, I summed up: “I can’t be here during visiting hours. But I need to see him. Five minutes—please. There’s something I need to tell him.”

Her face pinched up. She didn’t really have time for this nonsense. But as I waited for her verdict, tears started filling my eyes and spilling over. For a person who never cried, I sure was turning out to be good at it.

Finally, she’d had enough. “Five minutes,” she said, pointing at me. “And don’t try to sneak in here again.”

* * *

BEHIND THE CURTAIN, the rookie was hooked up to every tube and machine possible. He was on a ventilator, and the paper tape holding the tube in obscured much of his face. His eyes were taped shut. His face was red with second-degree burns where the edge of his mask had been.

Thank God for the movement and the noise of the ventilator, because everything else was as still as death.

But his hand was there. Someone had tucked his blankets carefully up under his arms and laid his hands at his sides. I reached over the rail. It was warm and soft. Alive.

And then I didn’t know what to say. Faced with the chance to talk to him, my mind went blank. I’d planned a whole speech on the drive down—one inspiring and powerful and motivating, one he would hear through the fog of his coma and grasp on to for the will to live.

But now I was here, and the clock was ticking.

“It’s me,” I said. “They won’t let me in to see you. DeStasio filed a false report, and now everybody thinks I’m the reason you’re in here. Looks like I’m going to lose my job. But I don’t care about any of it. The only thing I care about is you pulling through.” I stepped a little closer, still holding his hand but reaching out to stroke his forehead, too. “You’re really something special, rookie. The world needs you. I know you’re fighting. Keep fighting. Don’t give up.”

I leaned down and kissed his forehead.

“They only gave me five minutes—and I’m not allowed to come back. But just know that my whole heart is with you. Apparently, I need a medically induced coma to spark enough courage to say it, but—” I took a shaky breath. “I love you. I told the captain, and the whole crew, and the entire waiting room. So now, everybody knows but you. That’s why you’ve got to get better—so I can tell you for real.”

* * *

AFTER THAT, I stayed away.

I kept my phone on me at all times, waiting for texts from the captain. He was group-texting the whole crew with any information that he got, but after my enormous and dramatic confession in the waiting room, I kept thinking I’d receive something a little more personal.

I didn’t.

Not the first day. Or the second. Or the third.

I only got the basic updates sent to the group: His parents were keeping vigil in the ICU. His mother hadn’t changed clothes in days. His health was touch and go, and there were moments of encouragement and moments of worry. The collapsed lung and facial burns were improving, but the real concern was the damage to his trachea.

I wondered if ex-girlfriend Amy was still lurking around, abusing her mistaken status as “family.” But the captain didn’t mention her.

I didn’t hear much from the guys. Let’s just say heartache wasn’t exactly their area.

Those first days back home, banished from the hospital, melted into a blur of sleeplessness. And worry. And anger.

And utter, agonized dismay at the rubble around me.

I wanted to shut myself up in my room and lock the door and stop eating and curl up on the bed in a fetal position.

I wanted to—but to my credit, I didn’t. When Diana came in to sit by me, I didn’t send her away. When Josie showed up with a homemade smoothie, I took a few sips. I’d tried coping in isolation before, and I knew firsthand that it didn’t work.