Slipping the flashlight’s rope over my wrist to free my hands, I take a deep breath and yank on the handle. Miraculously, the door creaks opens without too much protest.
A man sits inside, his head hanging forward, unmoving. I turn my flashlight inside to assess the situation. His forehead is coated in blood, so much blood, and it’s running down the side of his face into his short, scruffy beard. He must have collided with the dashboard. That’s the issue with these fancy old cars: no air bags. His seat belt still stretches across his chest. At least he was smart enough to wear it.
I reach forward now to press my hand against his chest, my fingers trembling. It rises and falls with shallow breaths.
He’s still alive.
“Hello?” I whisper, as if afraid to startle him. “Can you hear me?”
No answer.
I inhale deeply through my nose. Something smells like it’s burning. Hopefully it’s just an oil drip. But what if it’s not? God only knows what kind of fluid is leaking over that hot engine. If it ignites, this car will go up in flames within minutes. If there’s anything I’ve learned while listening to chatter in a truck stop, it’s how fast a car can burn once a spark catches.
“Hey! Can you hear me?” I call out, louder this time, my panic creeping in where there was only shock a moment ago.
The slightest groan escapes his lips but otherwise he doesn’t stir. He’s still unconscious.
I waffle with indecision for five heartbeats. “I’m just going to unfasten your belt.” I carefully reach over his body to press the seat belt release button, afraid to bump him and cause more injury.
Has it been four minutes yet? I pause to listen, my ears perking for a hint of a siren. None.
But my ears do catch something else.
That distinctive whoosh of flammable liquid when it ignites.
This car is on fire.
And if this man doesn’t wake up and get out of here, he’s going to burn alive.
Full panic sets in. “Wake up! You need to wake up, now!” I yell, giving his broad shoulder a squeeze. He’s a big guy, all the more so in this crumpled car.
The flames are now visible, curling around and licking the hood, beginning to radiate an intense heat. A putrid odor curls my nostrils, and my stomach spasms with the realization that it’s likely the driver’s flesh against those flames that I smell.
A voice inside my head screams at me to run, to get back home safe and sound to Brenna. That I’ve done all that I can do and now it’s time to save myself.
I reach in to grasp the far side of his waist. “Wake up! I need you to wake up!” I cry, tugging on his massive body, earning his grunt but nothing more. I’m probably hurting him, I could be causing serious damage, but I don’t have a choice. It’s nothing compared to what the flames will do.
But it’s futile. He’s easily double my weight; there’s no way I can lift him.
Giving up on that angle, I yank on his right leg, pulling it free to hit the gravel. “The car is on fire! Wake up!” I’m a broken record of screams as I reach in to tug on his left leg, the heat from the flames flushing my skin, growing warmer by the second as thick, choking smoke begins to form. But his left foot seems to be pinned beneath something I can’t see, and I can’t free it no matter how hard I yank.
Tears of frustration slip out as the heat becomes almost unbearable. He still hasn’t woken up and I’ve run out of time. “I’m sorry. I can’t do this!”
He’s not waking up, and I have to leave him, one leg hanging out of the car.
One step toward safety. It’s not enough.
“I’m sorry,” I sob, cringing against the fire’s heat as I take a step back. I have a child I have to get home to. There’s nothing I can do here. And I can’t die for this man.
I take another step back, feeling the bulrushes brush against my back.
He coughs and lifts his head to rest against the back of the seat.
“Hey! Hey!” I scream with renewed hope, diving forward once again, my fists grabbing hold of the lapel on his jacket. “The car is on fire! You need to wake up!”
His eyes are still closed but he’s wincing. From the intense heat or pain, I can’t say.
“I need you to pull your foot free, right now! Please! Please! If you don’t, you are going to die!”
Something must finally trigger inside his head. He begins shifting his trapped leg this way and that, a grimace twisting his lips as he tries to free it. I reach down and grab the top of his boot to help, distinctly aware of the smell of burning rubber.
Finally, it pops free.
Grabbing his muscular thigh with both hands, I yank on it until it slides out to settle next to his other. “Stand up!” I reach in again, disregarding the blood and broken glass and any worries for injuring him more as I rope my arms around his waist.
“Get out of the car!” With all my strength, I pull.
Suddenly I’m falling backward.
Into the bulrushes, rolling through the ditch, this man’s bulky weight on me both crushing and exhilarating as we tumble in a messy heap to land in an inch of swamp water, the cold temperature a pleasant contrast to the intense heat from the fire.
I look over my shoulder in time to see the flames rolling into the car through the dash and gaping windshield, the roar not quite loud enough to drown out the sound of sirens approaching.
Keith hands me a white cloth. I accept it with a nod, my eyes on the smoldering heap of metal ahead. It looks like the fire department finally has the fire under control. They used everything they had—water, foam, and an entire truck’s worth of men. They moved fast, but not fast enough to save the looming oak tree ahead.
Or my car, parked too close behind.
“Where did they take him?” The paramedics came running when they saw me waving my arms from the ditch. We were still too close to the fire, and they were afraid that the flames would spread to the brush, so they worked fast to get the injured man on a stretcher and out of harm’s way.
“Belmont for now but they’ll probably airlift him to Philly.”
Airlift. How bad are his injuries? And how much worse did our tumble into the ditch make them?
Beside me, Keith’s police radio chirps with a series of codes. He answers the dispatcher with a few quick words of his own before turning his attention back to me. I’m so glad he was on shift tonight. “Your parents have Brenna?”
“She’s with a babysitter. I was supposed to be home . . .” How long ago now? It feels like it’s been hours. My gaze drifts to my burned-out car. The only thing salvageable from it was my purse, sitting in the backseat. Even if it were drivable, I can’t fathom how I’d get behind the wheel right now. “I need to get home.” I look at Keith. I’ll never get used to seeing the gangly neighborhood kid who I made out with behind the school gym when I was twelve and then proceeded to ignore for the better part of my teenage years because he wasn’t “cool,” who’s now my best friend, carrying a gun and a badge.