Page 1 of Moon Fated

Chapter

One

Evelyn

Sirens wailed behind me as I wove through the crowded Seattle streets, my heart pounding in rhythm with my hurried footsteps. The chaos of the city clamored for my attention—honking cars, chattering pedestrians, the distant echo of construction work—but I barely registered any of it, my mind solely fixated on the intersection of Cambert and Pine St.

Dispatch had called in a Code Blue moments ago, and every second counted. I'd learned to navigate the pandemonium of emergencies, but the urgency never diminished. A life hung in the balance, and my duty was to ensure they had a fighting chance.

I pushed past a group of tourists, their cameras flashing in my peripheral vision. A few disgruntled shouts floated after me, and I wanted to flip them the bird. The arrogance of some people. Crowding around one of their own as if their suffering was a circus act presented for their entertainment.

But thoughts like that made me angry, and I couldn’t afford to let any strong emotion take hold. For more reasons than one. It wasn’t safe to react emotionally in the field, and it wasn’t safe for me personally.

The tense knot in my stomach tightened with each step, adrenaline and anxiety mixing in my stomach like rocket fuel.

Two more blocks.

I rounded the corner, my hand instinctively reaching for the radio at my hip. "ETA 90 seconds.” My voice strained against the burning in my lungs. Static crackled in response, followed by an acknowledgment from my partner, Bruce. His real name was Jack, but he was an asshole so I took the liberty of giving him the name his mother should have.

The scene came into view, a small crowd gathered around a prone form on the sidewalk. I quickened my pace, my training kicking into high gear as I mentally ran through the protocols.

Check for responsiveness. Assess airway, breathing, circulation. Begin resuscitation if necessary.

I shouldered my way through the onlookers, my focus narrowing to the lifeless body before me. The world faded away, replaced by the singular goal of saving the person at my feet.

I dropped to my knees beside the unconscious man, my hands already moving to check his vital signs. If the pockmarks on his cheeks and bleeding gums weren’t enough of an indicator, his skin was pale and clammy, his breathing shallow and erratic.

Overdose.

"Sir, can you hear me?" My words were steady despite the hammering of my heart. No response. I turned to the nearest bystander, a middle-aged woman with fear etched on her face. "Did anyone see what happened?"

She nodded, her eyes wide. "He just collapsed. I think... I think he was on something?"

I acknowledged her with a brief nod, my attention already back on my patient. His pulse was weak and thready beneath my fingertips, a stark contrast to the adrenaline surging through my veins.

"I need space," I barked, my voice cutting through the crowd's murmurs. They stepped back, giving me room to work. I reached for my bag, my hands moving with practiced precision as I retrieved the necessary equipment. Naloxone. A syringe. An airway adjunct. Bruce, as usual, puffed out his chest and postured as if he planned to save a life through sheer douchery.

It was easiest to ignore him in moments like these. When the world narrowed to this moment, this life in my hands. I drew up the naloxone, my movements swift and sure. There was no room for hesitation, no time for second-guessing.

I positioned the syringe, finding the vein, then drew a deep breath and exhaled as I pressed. The needle slipped beneath his skin, and I pushed the plunger, watching as the life-saving medication disappeared into his bloodstream.

Come on, fight, I willed. Seconds ticked by, each one an eternity. I monitored his vital signs, ready to begin CPR if needed. The crowd around me held its collective breath.

And then, a gasp. A flicker of movement beneath his eyelids. The man's chest heaved as he drew in a ragged breath, color slowly returning to his face. Relief washed over me, tempered by the knowledge that the battle was far from over. But for now, I’d given him a chance.

I leaned in close, my voice gentle but firm. "Hey, can you hear me? You're going to be okay. We're EMT’s and we’re here to help you."

The man's eyes fluttered open, hazy and unfocused. He tried to speak, but his words came out as a hoarse whisper.

"Don't try to talk just yet," I soothed, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “We're going to take good care of you. You're safe now."

I could see the fear in his eyes, the unspoken questions. How close had he come to the edge? What would have happened if we hadn't arrived in time? Had he wanted us to arrive in time?

"You're stronger than you know.” I held his gaze. "You fought hard today, and you won. This is a new beginning, a chance to start over."

Every time I gave that speech I remembered when I’d given it to myself. Three years ago. When I packed a duffel and drove to Seattle.

I couldn't help but feel a twinge of empathy for the man lying before me as my team—not Bruce, who was busy consoling a woman on the edge of the crowd wearing a tank top that cut to her belly button—worked around me, attaching monitors and starting an IV.

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