“You’re in bigger trouble for falsifying a medical exam. Shit, Jon.” He shook his head. “No one was insubordinate in lieu of the situation. But I have to write up what happened for the After-Action Review that Dave Doss will be conducting.”
Silva was the last person Ryan would have expected to screw up location coordinates. If it was his fault, no one will know until after the AAR. Ryan liked Silva, but he had almost lost Tara. “I won’t rat you out for falsifying your medical. That ball is in your court. But when you feel up to it, I’ll need your written statement of what happened for my incident report.”
Silva winced and gave a small nod. “Thanks to you and Gunnar for your help.”
“Glad it worked out. And thanks for helping us transport Tara and Angela.”
Silva looked up at him with bloodshot eyes. “I love her, O’Connor. But she chose you.” He gave Ryan a desolate look. “Since I had to lose her to someone, it may as well have been your sorry ass.”
Ryan gave him a partial smile and patted him on the shoulder. “Get well, dude.”
The nurse took hold of the wheelchair and rolled Silva through the double doors.
Ryan peeked in after him to see what he could before the doors swung together. He shuffled over and sank into a seat next to Gunnar. Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his knees and rubbed the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger.
“What a clusterfuck.”
Gunnar patted his back and yawned. “It’s over, buddy. Get some shut-eye.”
“Gunns, go on back to AFS. I’m staying here.” Ryan sat upright. “But do me a favor. Tomorrow morning, please talk to Aurora Crew. I’ll need a statement from each crew member for my incident report. I’ll text you about Angela when I get the skinny.”
“Sounds good.” Gunnar pulled out his radio to request a shuttle.
“Thanks for today, Gunns. Later, buddy.”
Too restless to sit, Ryan pushed off the chair and ambled outside. The red sun no longer hovered on the mountaintops. Now it hid behind them as the days grew shorter. He puttered along a sidewalk and eyed two salmon-pink fireweed stems that had pushed up through a crack in the concrete. The stems still had a few tiers of blossoms left on their final countdown to the end of summer.
He fished out his pocketknife and flicked the blade open with his thumb. He cut the long stems, folded the knife closed, and wandered back inside.
Ryan stuffed the fireweed stems inside his shirt and slid down in his seat. He fetched Tara’s bandana from his shirt pocket and spread it over his face to dim the harsh, fluorescent light. Her scent filled his nostrils as he hoped upon hope she’d make it through the night.
He laid his head back and inhaled deeply, letting the bustling activity around him fade into dreamy sleep.
Chapter 39
A familiar melody of a decades-old soap opera streamed into Tara's ears and a guy talked about the scrubbing bubbles of Rainspell dish soap. Was she dead? Not unless soap operas were on the other side. She struggled to break the sticky seal of sleep on her eyelids.
Pain erupted everywhere throughout her body. It hurt to breathe and it hurt to move. Her head throbbed, and her entire backside felt like a bad sunburn. Her throat was so dry she couldn’t swallow. She tasted burnt charcoal, as if she’d been chewing charred campfire coals.
Her arms rested at her sides and she tried wiggling her fingers. Pain shot through them and up her arms. Forcing heavy lids open, she could make out a TV high on a wall and tried to fix on the moving images. Her head rolled to the side and a plastic tube tugged at her nose. An IV tube inserted in one gauze-wrapped hand led to a saline drip. She opened her mouth to speak and coughed.
“Tara, you’re awake,” Angela’s voice rasped next to her bed. She tossed her magazine and pushed from her chair to stand with crutches.
“Where am I?” she croaked out, forcing her lids to open wider.
“Fairbanks Memorial. Thank God you woke up.” Angela stood looking down at her, eyes full of tears.
“Am I dead?” Her brain wouldn’t work. She couldn’t make sense of the bright room and Angela standing there with tears running down her cheeks.
“You were dead, and then you weren’t and then we worried you would die again.” Angela dabbed her eyes with a tissue.
“You’re not making any sense. Why are you crying?” Tara whispered hoarsely, looking around.
Angela’s eyes roamed her face. “You don’t remember?”
Tara’s mind was a blank. She coughed and lifted a hand to finger strands of stinking, singed hair. The smell shot memory into her like a rocket. Her arms trembled when she tried lifting them.
“Can you help me lift my sheet? I want to see my legs.” She coughed. “Geez, I sound like a DC-10 with asthma.”
“Okay.” Angela lowered the sheet and pulled Tara’s hospital gown above her knees.
Tara scanned her lower body. Gauze wrapped each foot. Scrapes and bruises covered her legs like a camouflage pattern. The backs of her legs stung like mad. “Everything hurts. I’m so thirsty.”
Angela offered her a tall plastic glass with ice and a bent straw and the cool water on her throat felt miraculous. She gulped hungrily.
“Whoa, little at a time.” Angela winced as she held the straw to Tara’s lips.
“What happened to your leg?” rasped Tara, licking her lips. She strained to peek over the side of the bed.
“Dislocated knee. I popped the sucker back in.” Angela smiled, motioning to a pair of crutches leaning next to her chair. “I have a knee brace.”
“Oh, God.” Tara leaned back and closed her eyes, trying to remember. The ravine. The mountain. Angela falling. Carrying her uphill. In the shelter. Fire. Smoke. Then…nothing. Perspiration beaded her forehead as she recalled the sensation of not being able to breathe. Her stomach
