Page 82 of The Dating Charade

“I wanted to talk with you about the Skyline Drive situation. Again.”

Jett started to shake his head. “I know, sir. I’ve tried talking to them—”

All conversations stopped at the alarm.

“Medic 2–10, Ladder 2–0–2, med 3 response . . . US 321 adjacent to Cliff Branch and Quality Inn Suites. Tractor trailer down. Multiple cars . . .”

The plate dropped out of Jett’s hands, splashing into the tub of water.

“Move it, Loguercio!” Ferraro roared as he got caught behind Kevin and several chairs. Jett followed on the heels of the men, each running for the pole. Though they were fast every time, they were quieter now, more focused as they swung on their jackets and jumped into their boots. The garage door roared open as Jarod peeled the truck out of the station.

Multiple cars. Tractor trailer down.

A big one.

“Who’s on jaws?” Ferraro said, casting a glance back, his grip firm on the roof while the engine swung around a set of cars.

“I will.” Jett pulled on his gloves, hands still damp with soap water.

The pileup was considerable on both sides of the highway, cars jammed together as the engine made a slow turn onto 321. Brakes creaked on and off as the truck inched forward, the road so congested cars had but feet to turn.

“Come on,” Jarod grumbled, laying his hand on the horn. He threw his head out the window. Laid on the horn again.

Smoke rose from the tractor trailer on its side, as giant and foreign on its side as a dead dinosaur. The bright-blue cab of the semi lay across another car, though too many vehicles blocked their way to see its condition.

Still, it didn’t look good.

“Come on!” Jarod laid on the horn unceasingly now, while the crisscrossed maze of cars kept pulling forward and backward to get out of his way.

“Male in semi. Possible companion,” the dispatcher updated as Jett’s eyes searched the road for a way through. But wedged between the mountain on one side and the creek on the other, cars were pulling up onto what little sidewalk was available as they moved forward what felt like a foot a minute. “Honda Civic. Female. Multiple children.”

“Honda Civic.”

Jett squinted, trying to recognize what little of the car was visible. He jerked off his seatbelt. Pushed his head out the window.

“Multiple children.”

Jett pushed himself higher out the window. Over a couple of SUVs he saw the top of the toppled blue cab of the semi. A battered, dust-ridden Honda as its pillow. Duct tape stretched across what was left of the bumper.

Jett jerked the door open and stumbled to the asphalt, breath caught in his throat.

“Jett!” Ferraro called. “What are you doing?”

“That’s my family!”

They said you gave your all, every day, for this job. Until now, he had lain to rest easy every night, believing in all good conscience he had. But his legs didn’t know the speed at which they could travel until this day, until this moment. His chest didn’t know the capacity it could fill of car exhaust, smoke, and the crisp scent of creek, until this second.

He didn’t feel his muscles throw his body forward, just felt the whip of wind in his face as he maneuvered through the maze of cars. He wedged himself through two cars spaced half a foot apart. Dodged around a driver stepping out of his car. The tractor loomed as he jumped over the front of the SUVs crushed against each other.

Suddenly the tractor let out a loud creak, and the cab dropped another few inches onto the car below.

Please, God. Please, oh, please.

Jett ran around to the side of the car. He took in the spiderwebbed windshield, glanced momentarily to the driver: the body leaning over the airbag, hair the color of Trina’s splayed across the steering wheel. His stomach dropped as he turned to the mangled back door. Took in the leering cab directly overhead.

Bent down.

Stopped breathing.