Page 70 of Caden & Theo
Blood’s still on his face, but he’s alive. He’s alive. Thank God. He’s screaming my name. I can’t hear it, but I know it. I know the shape of his mouth when he says my name. When he pleads.
I try to reach for him. Try to say something. Anything. But it’s too much. My body’s not mine anymore. It’s fire and ice and shrapnel.
I feel them lift me—the sudden motion, the sky spinning. And the last thing I hear before everything goes black… is Theo.
Still calling me back.
Still holding on.
FIFTEEN
THEO
The soundof the rotor blades is deafening, slicing through the air like knives. We’re crammed into the back of the medevac helicopter that arrived shortly after the ambulance, the scent of antiseptic mixing with the metallic tang of blood—his blood. Caden’s.
I can’t stop looking at him.
He’s strapped down next to me, unconscious, pale, and far too still. There’s a bandage over his forehead, but the worst is lower—his leg is a mess of twisted bone, torn flesh, and blood that keeps soaking the gauze they’ve packed around it. It doesn’t even look like a leg anymore. Not really. I can’t look at it for long, but I can’t look away either.
I’m holding on to the edge of the stretcher so tightly my knuckles are white. And even though my right arm is useless, cradled against my chest and screaming with pain, I grip the bloodstained LEGO fireman Caden made years ago like a lifeline. I took it out of my pocket because I thought holding it would stop me losing my shit. The medics keep asking me questions, their words muffled under the roar of the blades and the thudding in my skull. My head’s bleeding. My ribs are a mess—I can’t breathe without sharp pain stabbing through me—but I keep saying I’m fine.
Because none of that matters.
Only Caden matters.
“Please,” I rasp when one of the paramedics checks my vitals again. “His parents. Call his parents. I know the number. I know it.”
I tell them the number I memorized when I was eight, the one written on slips of paper for sleepovers and basketball camps and just in case. My throat tightens around it like it’s made of glass. The medic nods and radios it in, but I don’t know if they’ll be able to reach them right away.
I can’t tell if I’m crying or if it’s just the wind and pain and shock. All I know is I feel like I’m outside my body, watching everything from someplace far away. Caden doesn’t move. Not once. I watch the machines strapped around him, his chest rise and fall. I count every breath like it might be his last.
The lights of Traverse City bloom beneath us, bright and blurry. Munson Medical Center comes into view, and something like relief starts to flutter in my chest.
We’re going to make it.He’sgoing to make it. He has to.
The helicopter banks and begins its descent, the sudden shift pressing me sideways, jarring my ribs. I groan but bite it down. My vision’s swimming. I keep my eyes on Caden until the second the doors open and we’re swallowed into the chaos of voices and lights and fast-moving figures.
I try to follow his stretcher as they roll him out.
“Wait—hey, wait, I’m with him!”
A nurse catches me as I stumble, her face grim and calm all at once. “You need to be seen immediately. You’ve got a head injury. You’ve lost a lot of blood.”
“I don’t care about that!” I shout, or try to. It comes out wet and weak. “Please. Just let me stay—” But my legs give out.Blackness creeps in at the edges of my vision, and the last thing I see is a smear of blood on the white sheet covering Caden’s body.
And then—nothing.
I wakeup in a bright room with a pulse monitor beeping beside me and a pounding headache that feels like a battering ram. My left arm is strapped in place, heavy and sore. My ribs burn with every breath.
Caden.
I bolt upright, then scream as my ribs explode in pain. A nurse rushes to my side, her face a practiced mix of concern and calm. “You need to stay still, Theo.”
“No—where is he? Caden. Where’s Caden?”
“You were in a serious accident,” she says gently, adjusting the mask over my face. “You’ve got two broken ribs, a fractured ulna that’ll need surgery, and a concussion. You passed out before we could finish your intake.”
“I don’t care,” I croak. “Tell me about Caden.”
