Page 23 of Knot Your Sugar Rush
Theo raises an eyebrow. “It’s an ambulance, Jamie. Of course something’s wrong.”
Jamie doesn’t answer. His gaze is locked on the window, expression unreadable.
My gut tightens. Jamie’s a lot of things—easygoing, big-hearted, annoying as hell—but when his instincts ping, I listen.
I grab my phone from the coffee table and tap into the local dispatch line we keep on hand for property emergencies. It rings twice.
“Hey, this is Dane Ford. Just heard sirens go by. You got eyes on where they’re headed?”
A pause.
“Yeah. Rosie Vale’s place.”
The floor drops out of me.
“Thanks,” I say tightly, and hang up.
“It’s Rosie,” I tell the others, already on my feet.
Jamie’s up before the words are fully out. Theo doesn’t say a thing—just grabs his jacket from the back of the chair.
We’re out the door in under a minute.
The truck roars to life, gravel crunching as we back out and tear down the road. None of us speak. What’s there to say?
Cam’s face flashes through my mind—her smile, the way her eyes dart when she’s overthinking, the stubborn tilt of her chin. The way she looked that day I met her, holding grief like it was something she’d trained herself to carry quietly.
Jamie breaks the silence. “She’s alone.”
“Not for long,” I say.
The hospital lights are harsh when we pull in. We park crooked, practically jumping out of the truck before the engine’s even stopped.
Inside, the lobby is too bright, too sterile. The air smells like antiseptic and nerves. Jamie strides to the desk, voice low and urgent. Theo’s scanning the waiting room.
I’m scanning for her.
We don’t know what we’ll find. But we know why we’re here.
For her.
Chapter thirteen
Cam
The ambulance ride is a blur of red lights and hushed voices.
I sit stiffly, holding Gram’s hand like it’s the only anchor I’ve got. The medic across from me speaks softly, asking questions, taking vitals, but I barely register any of it. My entire world has shrunk down to the slow, shallow rhythm of Gram’s breathing and the cold dread coiling tighter and tighter in my chest.
Please don’t leave me. Not yet.
The sirens cut through the night air as we speed toward the hospital. When we finally pull up, the doors open and everything happens at once—blurred movement, fast voices, wheels squeaking on linoleum. I try to follow, but someone stops me at the ER doors.
“Family can wait here. We’ll come get you when we know more.”
I nod dumbly and let them guide me to a plastic chair in a too-bright waiting room that smells like antiseptic and tired hopes. My hands are shaking, so I tuck them under my thighs and try to remember how to breathe.
I feel small. Lost. Like I’m nineteen years old again, watching everything I love fall apart without a clue how to stop it.
