Page 18 of Once Upon A Second Chance
The town square resembles a warzone. The dunk tank lies overturned near the remains of the pie contest table, blueberry filling smeared across the pavement like some kind of abstract crime scene painting.
A moan from our left snaps us both into action.
"Over there," Penny says, already moving toward the sound.
Mr. Higgins—Tommy’s grandfather—lies pinned under a fallen tent pole, his face ashen.
"Don’t move," I order, dropping to my knees beside him. My fingers find his pulse—thready but steady.
Penny’s hands are already probing his ribs. "Can you feel this?"
"Just my leg," he grits out.
The pole rests across his thigh. Blood has soaked through his jeans. He must have been lying here for hours.
Penny meets my eyes over his body. Compound fracture, she says. Possible arterial bleed.
"Lena!" Penny barks over her shoulder. "I need the first aid kit and something for a splint!"
To my surprise, Lena appears instantly, lugging a red plastic toolbox. "Already on it."
We work in perfect sync—me applying pressure to the wound, Penny fashioning a splint from broken table legs and festival banners. Our hands brush as we tie off the bandages, but neither of us flinches this time.
Mr. Higgins grips my arm as we lift him onto a makeshift stretcher. "You two really make a good team."
Pennyfreezes.
A memory flashes—us in the anatomy lab dissecting human cadavers during our pre-med labs, our shoulders pressed together for hours.
She clears her throat. "Let’s get you to the triage tent. I’m afraid you’re headed to the hospital, Mr. Higgins."
The morning passes in a blur of minor injuries and shock cases. Penny moves through the chaos like a battlefield medic—calm, efficient, and utterly unshakeable. I catch myself watching her more than once.
The way she kneels to check a child’s scraped knee, her voice softening into reassurance.
How she redistributes blankets without being asked, always finding the elderly first. The stubborn set of her jaw when she argues with the mayor about evacuating the worst cases.
At some point, we find we’ve fallen into an unspoken rhythm. She hands me sutures before I ask. I catch her when she stumbles from exhaustion.
When a teenager panics over his dislocated shoulder, we reduce it together. Her hands steady his while I manipulatethe joint back into place.
"Nice work, Dr. Hogan," she murmurs as the kid slumps in relief while she fashions a sling for him.
The sound of my name in her mouth—warm and teasing, just like old times—catches me off guard. "Couldn’t have done it without you."
Her lips quirk. Just a little. Just enough.
Nearby, Mrs. Delaney watches us over her lemonade cup. "Y’all act like you’ve done this before."
I pretend not to notice the flush creeping up Penny’s neck. "Just lucky, I guess."
The truth hangs between us, unspoken but palpable.
We have done this before.
And we were damn good at it.
The morning of the second day is almost over as we finally step away from the basement triage area.
