Someone must spot my sorry looking form emerging from the few trees left standing. Before I can summon the energy to climb the fence, I see an entire team of emergency personnel barreling toward me. There's hollering, those in charge issuing orders to their subordinates, and I watch as an ambulance attempts to maneuver through the wreckage toward me. It only makes it halfway before it's forced to stop; fallen trees, a basketball hoop, and several other unrecognizable pieces of my school blocking its path.

Slouching to the ground, I curl my fingers into fists and press them against my eyes, forcing back the onslaught of emotion. My body has nothing left in it. I've given every bit of strength and now that I know I'm safe, I have no more fight. I can't move forward. So I don't. I just wait for help to arrive. And within seconds, it does.

Questions are being thrown at me, lights blasting across my vision. I'm disoriented. My mental ability to absorb anything has died. I simply sit, dazed, as I watch swarms of people gather around me. A moment later, I'm being lifted onto a gurney, my shirt being torn from my body as they inspect the damage. I hear crying, and at first I think it's coming from me, until I feel a gentle hand wrap around my shoulder.

Her scent reaches me first. I know that scent far too well, because it's the same smell she's always worn. Something florally and fresh.

"Mom?" I rasp, feeling as though someone's taken a pair of scissors to the inside of my throat. It's raw. Dry.

Swallowing, I let my eyes drift to the familiar blue ones gazing back at me. How did she get here so fast? Has she been here searching for me this whole time? The questions prick my brain for an instant and then vanish.

"Hi, baby," she whispers, tears choking her words. I never realized how desperate I was for the sound of her voice.

The worry on her face. The complete brokenness etched into the quivering lines around her lips as she attempts to hold herself together. It's too much, and I feel myself collapse with her. It's only been two days but it might as well have been forever. It seems as though I haven't felt her touch or heard her voice for years.

Then I see my dad. He's standing behind her, his hands shoved into his front pockets as he watches me with glassy eyes. He's fighting his own emotional battle and I know just how much he hates showing weakness in front of people. So instead of reaching for him the way my heart and body yearns to, I simply smile. That's all he needs. The reassurance that I will be okay even if things are out of our control right now. He smiles back, his shoulders tightening as he fights off the onslaught of tears that I see glistening in his eyes. Then he nods, dropping his gaze as he swipes a finger across his nose.

He doesn't meet my eyes again as my mom explains where my siblings are. Honestly, I hadn't even noticed they weren't around. I just assumed they were fine, and thank goodness, they are. They're probably soaking up all this free time with their friends. Loving that mom and dad aren't breathing down their necks for once.

I feel my body relax into the gurney beneath me as my eyes flutter closed. But the moment they do, I'm once against submerged beneath ground, darkness crowding out the light as I watch Bryson's eyes widen as the winds suck him from my arms.

"Bryson!" I suddenly gasp, trying my hardest to sit up straight. How the heck had I forgotten about him? He's practically dying, and somehow my mind just shut off the moment I saw hope in the distance.

"What?" my mom questions, reaching for my arm, but she's practically pushed out of the way as the paramedics and police officers press in closer.

"Bryson Andrews," I tell them before they can ask. "He was with me. We both got trapped in the basement. Something's wrong with him though. He needs help."

"Okay, okay," a police officer soothes, gently rubbing my shoulder. I ignore the sting that his touch causes and attempt to sit up again.

"Just relax, Miss," he tells me, his soft voice grinding against my patience. I know he's trying to get me to calm down, but the tone of his voice is having the opposite effect. I'm scrambling, desperate for them to understand the urgency.

"Can you tell us where he is?" another officer asks, coming to stand on my other side.

"Yes," I nod, shutting my eyes so I can envision the path I'd taken to get back here. "No. I don't know. I can't—I can't really remember. But I can show you. I know my way back. I know I do. But I have to show you. I don't know how to explain it."

The officers share a look with the two paramedics working to bandage several wounds I wasn't even aware that I had. Truth is, I most likely could explain it. I just don't want to. I need to be there when they pull Bryson from the pit of hell.

"Ms. Stetson, you have a severely sprained knee," a dark-skinned paramedic explains. "I'm not sure it's a very good idea for you to be—"

"I don't care!" I almost scream, frustration breaking through my fear. "Bryson will die if I don't help you find him. I can suffer a bum leg for a couple more minutes. Just..." I sit up now, throwing my legs off the gurney and shoving my way between the policemen. "Follow me."

I'm moving before anyone can stop me. Two bodies come up beside me, draping a blanket around my nearly bare torso before offering to assist me in walking. We move at a steady pace, my knee throbbing despite the thoughts distracting me from my own pain.

I hear people talking around me, walkie-talkies crackling as information is shared across the airwaves. It doesn't take long before I hear the distant whir of a helicopter approaching. For a moment, I'm struck by the dedication of these people. The level of effort they're putting in to saving just one soul. Pride swells around my ribs and I fight off the crushing thickness strangling my vocal cords.

My thoughts drift back to Bryson. The fear—the helplessness—as the tornado had torn him away from me. The fire in his eyes when he'd watched that beam slam me to the ground. The strength he'd mustered simply to carry me across piles of debris.

There's an uncomfortable weight that settles against my chest at the thought. The fact that he'd carried me even when he was dealing with his own injuries. His back was already a mess, but was carrying me what really did the most damage? Did it only exacerbate the problem? Why hadn't he said anything? He'd just ignored the pain and pretended to be okay until it couldn't be ignored.

How much had he really been suffering? All the chit chat and laughter. He was struggling but pretended otherwise just to give me peace of mind. Why couldn't he have just been honest? Maybe I would have been able to get help sooner if I'd realized just how urgently he needed it.

Rounding the last cluster of trees, I spot the broken home in the distance. It's barely noticeable buried beneath tree limbs and shrubs, only a few walls still remaining.

"There," I point. "He's in the basement, but there aren't any stairs."

I'm not even sure if the paramedics hear me. They're already running toward the home, first aid bags swinging on their shoulders. The two police officers continue to help me move forward and I find myself growing agitated by our pace. I want to fling their arms away and just sprint the last few feet, but now that my adrenaline is wearing off, the pain is flaring up. Even limping has become a struggle but I do my best to hide my discomfort.

The helicopter hovers above the broken home, and I watch from the distance as they lower a gurney into the hole. I see the paramedics shouting at each other and hollering directions into their radios but I can't hear anything but the thwop-thwop-thwop of the helicopter blades overhead. The sound is deafening, meshing with the memories of the swirling roar of the tornado. I brace myself, taking a deep breath as I force my thoughts away from the horror and back into the present. Back to the hope that's playing out right in front of me.

When I feel a tug on my arm, I turn to see the taller police officer motion with a jerk of his head that it's time to return. I've done all that I can. Bryson is in safer hands now. There's no reason for me to stand out here freezing when there's perfectly good medical treatment—and a warm ambulance—waiting for me back at the school.

Nodding, I allow both men to assist me back to the school, my body growing weaker with every step. When I stumble for the second time, I find myself being whipped up into a pair of strong arms, my eyes closing as I trust whoever is carrying me to get me back to safety.

It feels like no time has passed before I'm being lowered onto a stiff cushioned-bed and draped with several warm blankets. My eyes blink awake and I watch as one woman works to get my leg stabilized in some kind of ace bandage. She's just finished securing it in place when I hear the helicopter approach.

Jolting upward, I watch as it descends, confusion painting its way across my forehead.

"Why are they landing?" I ask the female paramedic who's busy cleaning a wound on my shoulder. "Shouldn't they be taking him straight to the hospital?"

She glances back to watch the large chopper settle on the ground. We watch as Bryson is unloaded and then the aircraft is lifting back into the air and disappearing behind a patch of trees.

"I'm not sure," she responds, words unsure as she turns to question one of her teammates.

"Yeah," the man nods, looking in the direction that the helicopter just departed. "They got another call. Some children stuck in a well off 74. Pretty nasty stuff from what I heard."

Before we can ask for any more details, Bryson is being wheeled toward us and I'm being shooed away from the comfort of my bed. My eyes take in his face. How unnaturally pale he looks now that he's in the daylight. His lips are purple, the chill yet to have left his body. I ache to touch him, to rub my warmth into his skin, but I'm numb. Frozen. There's nothing I can do but observe.

Then they remove the blanket covering his upper body and my attention drops to the bloodstains covering the ring of his collar and another patch near his shoulder. But as quickly as I see the crimson, my view is blocked. The rescue team has abandoned all other duties to assist Bryson. They work as a system: pricking, wrapping, and prodding him until every wound is medicated and bandaged, and sustenance and relief are being pumped into his veins.

"His heart rate is unsteady," a short blond says, pushing buttons on the monitor beside him. I sense my parents move closer to me, my mom's hand offering comfort as she squeezes my right shoulder. But I don't move or acknowledge her presence. I just stand frozen. Watching.

I watch them spring into action, my brain scrambling to understand the purpose of each movement that they make. I trust them. I trust they know what they're doing. They've got everything under control. Until suddenly they don't. Until suddenly everything is crumbling around me like the ceiling of that old basement.

Her words bounce against my throbbing skull like a rubber bullet in a concrete room.

"I lost him," she says, her voice calm but focused. "We've got no pulse."

He did everything he could to protect me... even from my own fears. And yet, I failed him with the one thing that matters most:

His life.

---

:(