The Shadows of Mist: Ch 1- Six Months in pt 1

Caleb pats me on the shoulder as he heads away. Back to work, saving lives and keeping people comfortable while they wait. I hear my partner, Snodgrass, tonight, opening up the passenger side of the rig. I move to take my spot in the driver's seat. My coffee Caleb had brought me still half full. Ill probably forget about it till later. I'm so used to cold coffee, I probably may as well start with iced. Snodgrass nods to me as I get my seatbelt snapped into place. He radios in that we are clear of General, headed back to the station unless another call comes in. It's 4 am, but that means nothing for emergencies. Some guy making his way home, ignoring how drowsy he is. Or some parent goes to check on their baby through the night, and heaven forbid they aren't breathing. Snodgrass and I are ready for anything; between the two of us we might have seen it all.

As I ease the rig out of the bay, an all-too-familiar voice comes over the radio.

Noah’s—measured, professional, softened just a little by exhaustion.

“Copy that, 309. Marking you returning to station. Be safe.”

Snodgrass keys up immediately.

“Sure thing, Dispatch… though your brother’s driving, so that ‘safe’ bit might be hard.”

I can hear the smirk in Noah’s voice.

“Copy that, Danny. Remember—ambulances are expensive. The last one you broke cost more than your salary.”

I shake my head, easing us onto the road.

“Noted, Dispatch. Your shift almost over?”

“Negative, 309. Picked up another.”

I grimace at that. The streetlights along 64 flicker across the cab in steady intervals.

“Careful, Dispatch. People are gonna think you’re trying to outwork me.”

“Impossible,” Noah replies. “There are only so many hours in a week.”

I laugh at that, and immediately regret it. The now weeks-old familiar sting as my ribs protest me daring to use them. Snodgrass gives me a knowing look as he says, “Don't worry, dispatch; I'll take care of ‘crash’, let us know if anyone needs us.”

“Copy that 309, we will be in touch.”

I see the Montrose exit come up and take it. Sighing a bit as I see yet more construction. Sure the roads need it, desperately, but construction means delays and detours. A detour could steal away those 2 minutes that could mean life or death.

We pull into the parking lot. We aren't in a fire station like most medic stations. Just a little building that gives us a space to sleep between calls. As if sleep is something I actually do anymore. Used to be the pain meds took the choice, but I stopped those as soon as I could tolerate. I have seen too many times what happens when those little pills take over your life. In my profession its far too easy to get them too.

So now I do my best to rest when I can, even if it's broken. The flashes of memories from the crash. The woman in the fog always reaching, commanding. My body has to be rested so I can keep people breathing.

—

I'm restocking the rig when I hear the tones.

Noah’s voice, measured and professional: “Station 309, respond to I-64 East near mile marker 58.5, Exit 58C Washington Street area, for a two-vehicle collision. Minor damage reported, both drivers ambulatory. Charleston Fire is on scene. Time out 05:15.”

Snodgrass comes out saying, “Get your ass in a seat. He doesn’t have to tell me twice. As I get into the passenger side, clicking my belt,

Adkins screaming from the back—

the rig rolling—

equipment slamming loose—

Echoes in my mind.

I pull myself back before I get lost in it—

the antiseptic, the antifreeze… the iron.

I ground myself by grabbing the MDT. Something real, getting my mind back where it belongs. Charleston Fire on scene already. I already know who im going to see. Last I saw him was as I left the loft for work. He was snoring loudly on the couch.

I find myself glancing to the side mirrors, checking our surroundings even though I'm not driving. Part of me expects the sight of a Mack coming right at us.

We arrive on scene no issues. I hear Marcus laughing as I get out.

“Well, look at who bribed someone to get back.”

I ignore him. I approach the nearest patient. A tired-looking young woman. The car she's near has side damage. Looks like someone didn't check their blind spot.

She eyes me, her gaze lingering on my neck, my arms. She steps back ever so slightly. I’m used to it. I lead with

“Morning, ma’am. Can you tell me if you’re in any pain? Did you lose consciousness at any point?”

She hesitates, probably not expecting the familiar cadence of a local coming out of a guy who looks like me.

She sighs and steps closer. “My arm hurts a little…”

She holds up her left. Yep, she was the one who merged. Her arm is already sporting a good-sized bruise from the door.

I tilt my head, keeping my movements slow. “May I?”

Before moving to get a more physical exam of her arm. She hesitates again. and

Snodgrass speaks up.

“You’re in good hands, ma’am. Danny’s been doing this for ages. And the stripes just make him easier to find.”

I give her a gentle smile. No teeth. Just the tired lift at the corners of my mouth—non-threatening.

The stripes are bad enough; my teeth don't need to make things worse.

The patient allows me to complete her assessment. She refuses transport; she will probably change her mind later when the adrenaline wears off. For this moment, though, I get her to sign the refusal as Snodgrass finishes with the other patient. An older gentleman seems more agitated than injured. His truck has barely a scratch.

I'm getting my bag back into the rig when I feel a strong hand clap my shoulder. “How did you get mom to let you leave her sight?”

I sigh, shake my head a little. “Marc, I have been back home a week now, and worked several shifts.”

Marcus huffs, “I know that; hard to miss that little crappy car of yours in the lot. But still, man, it really smart you back on the road?”

I turn to look at him. He's much taller than I am; I have to look up some to look him in the eyes. Emerald green, filled with his usual sarcastic charm.

“I am fine. Now don't you have work to be doing?”

He laughs some. “Giving you hell is my full-time job. Cleaning up wrecks is just the hobby.”

I get myself back into the passenger seat as Snodgrass radios us clear. Through the window I can hear Marcus already giving someone else grief. I don't catch the words. Just the laugh.

Some things don't change.

Snodgrass pulls us out, and I watch the scene shrink in the side mirror until it's just lights and Marcus's silhouette getting smaller.

As I shift in my seat, getting my tail in a better position, my ribs remind me they exist.

I ignore them.

My brothers all show it differently.

Caleb feeds me, checks in often. Noah casually jokes and tries to act like he wasn't on shift that night and took the call.

Marcus is loud, abrasive, and refuses to admit his crew had to physically restrain him on the scene when the truck driver was up staggering.

Snodgrass takes us back toward the station without either of us needing to say it. The city is starting to wake up around us, that particular grey-blue of early morning when the streetlights haven't decided if they're still needed.

I think about Marcus laughing on that scene.

Noah had told me about it maybe two weeks into my recovery. Sitting in my hospital room like he was giving a briefing.

"I'm lucky Caleb works in a hospital. It kept him out of that shit show. You nearly dead, and Marcus doing his best to end up in prison."

He'd said it to the window. Not to me.

I hadn't asked for details. I don't think I needed them.

—----------------

The end of shift finally arrives. By pure luck, no call comes in last minute.

I sit in my car—small, reliable.

I pull out my phone. Habit takes me straight to messages.

Sammy’s name is lower on the list than I expect.

“Hey, babe. Off work. Gonna make a stop, then head home. See you at the restaurant soon.”

I sigh, then scroll further down.

This one, I call.

It rings twice before he picks up.

Scott sounds better today—there’s more of him in his voice.

“Hey, Danny.”

“Hey. I’m headed home from the station. Need anything from the store?”

There’s a pause. His voice shifts—something familiar, almost parental.

“How long you been on shift?”

“Long enough. I’m already out. Delivery’s expensive.”

He laughs, then groans—his body reminding him he’s not ready yet.

“Fine. You wanna just grab some chicken and deli sides for the kids?”

“What about you and Rich?”

“Rich’ll eat chicken. I’m not really hungry today.”

“Got it. So your usual.”

“Dan… money’s tight—”

“Did I ask that?” I cut in, not harsh—just firm.

“You need food. Your body’s healing.”

Adkins doesn't argue after that. We end the call, and I get the car started.

The engine has that familiar 2014 hum—present, but not loud.

I glance at the rearview. Clear.

The little crochet figure Caleb had given me for good luck

stares at me with the oversized red eyes of a local cryptid. The side of my mouth curves in fondness, thinking how only Caleb could see an omen as a good luck charm.

The drive to the store isn't long. The Riverwalk has a good-sized grocery store that always has a good stock of rotisserie chickens and pre-made sides.

The air is unreasonably chilly. It gives me a good excuse to slip on my hoodie. It covers the uniform and the stripes.

For a while, I just get to be what they see—a foreign-looking guy with weird eyes…

Instead of the one with weird body tatts. Thankfully, the tail tucks into my slightly oversized cargo pants.

My feet take me to the deli on habit.

It’s an easy place to grab something warm that isn’t fast food.

Caleb does what he can to give us home cooked, but life as an er nurse means that doesn’t always happen.

Mom sends food every Sunday—even if we don’t make it up the holler. Emma Sato has been feeding her four boys and husband for 27 years, no amount of “we're fine” will get her to stop.

I smell the rich, meaty, aroma of the chickens in the warmer as I get closer. The steady heat from the stand radiates outward, a stark contrast to the cool air filling the store. I spot a few chickens, I've beat the 9-5 crowd. I pick up two, hesitate a moment then grab another two.

A medic’s pay isn’t great, and six months of no work is wrecking their finances. Mine aren’t great either after my time off, but I don't have kids to feed. Probably never will.

After I check out, I make my way to the doors.

Cool air rushes in as they slide open—river smell, exhaust, the city waking up.

In it, I hear her.

It’s background noise now, most days.

But sometimes… it gets louder.

“Come to me…”

I exhale and keep walking.

Then I notice something.

She’s louder when I’m facing west.

—------------------

Continued in part 2