Here's a nice long chapter for you all. If you're not a fan of medical talk or get queasy easily, maybe skip the last scene.

Since all my characters so rudely continue to live rent-free in my head (and in this economy, too), I have some standalone chapters relating to both Sadie and Asher (from Beautiful and Damned) and Brady and Mia. It would take all of one person to be interested for me to post these. Maybe a two-fourshot type scenario. Thoughts? Scenes you'd want to see from these pairings (most of what I already have is smut lol) or other characters?

It's funny, I thought for a bit there I'd never be able to deal. But I make some coffee and I take a shower and I start to heal. – "Here's to Moving On" by Dashboard Confessional

Quil – December

Christmas is the worst without her.

Without them.

This time last year, I was standing with my arms around Claire at the Dashboard Confessional concert and thinking maybe, just maybe, things would turn out good. That Hannah would fight just hard enough to beat the cancer, and Claire and I would grow closer because of it. If she'd stuck around, she'd be done with her first semester of college, thinking about declaring a major and deciding where to live once dorms were no longer an option. I would tell her to consider me.

But now, as I stare at the text on my screen on Christmas Eve night, sitting on Jacob and Nessie's sectional, surrounded by love and laughter and light and life, I'm not feeling considerate in the slightest.

Callie Young: don't think dad and I are doing pajamas this year. breakfast is still on tho. no pressure

These days, my grief remains firmly in the anger stage. I know this is not Claire's fault. I know it, and yet I can't get that knowledge to travel from my head to my heart, where I feel the worst of my resentment.

I told myself all month I wouldn't buy her a present. She won't be here to experience anything, will she? If she'd stayed, been here, I would have maybe gifted her a scavenger hunt in Seattle. Gotten a really nice hotel downtown so we could overlook the city. It would have been our first solo vacation, something I know she's always looked forward to.

But she's in—God, I don't even know where she is—and I am here, and inside I feel about as mixed up as the salad Bethany helped Nessie make at the kitchen island.

I chose an end seat on the sectional, so I'd only note the emptiness of one space instead of two. Thankfully, Parker was handed to me as soon as Embry came through the door, and where Parker goes, Sadie goes. She sits plastered to my side. Her hair has dipped into her gravy twice already from her trying to kiss her brother's head.

Maybe my brother is more strategic than I give him credit for. Across the room, Embry meets my questioning gaze with a firm nod. I've got you, he says without words.

"So." Kim takes a deep swallow of red wine and clears her throat. "Does anyone have any special announcements they'd like to make while we're all gathered here?" she says to the room at large.

Rachel snorts around her bite of ham. "If you want to know if someone's pregnant, Kim, then just ask."

"Okay," Kim says. "Is someone pregnant?" She looks pointedly at every woman in here, making sure to catch their eyes and hold steady.

"Oh no," Leah Clearwater says, shaking her head vehemently. "Do not look at me like you're trying to will a baby into my womb. Closed for business. One and done."

Silence fills the space and bounces off the wood beams and floors. The fireplace crackles calmly in the corner.

"It's weird, isn't it?" Katie says softly. Next to her, Sienna sits contently on Seth's lap, eating macaroni off his plate with her hands. "This is the first time in years."

"I sort of like having a new baby to look forward to," Jacob offers, and murmurs of assent echo around the room.

Something hot stirs in my gut, behind my eyes, and I rise to my feet to grab more food, clutching Parker tight to my chest as we go. I'm no longer hungry; I just need a break. With surprise, I realize I'm jealous. I want this, what they all have.

And the only girl I will ever want it with does not want the same with me.

"You and me, Park," I murmur. "Just you and me."

Quil – March

It doesn't happen overnight.

One day it's Christmas Eve, and you're jealous and sad and mean, to basically everyone except a gummy-mouthed three-month-old, who for some reason thinks you hung the moon and stars. You're even snappy with his parents, who love both themselves and you enough to tell you they don't deserve your anger. You apologize, and things are almost okay.

At work, you get the Lieutenant position you went out for months ago. You forgot you ever applied, so it is a surprise. Your coworkers let you pick lunch. Your boss commends you for your work ethic. He doesn't notice there is one less picture on your locker door these days. It's not gone. That would be too permanent. You just moved it to the back left corner, behind your spare boots. There are reports of wildfires creeping up the coast, toward Washington. But it is too wet, so you do not worry. Nothing ever burns here.

Your redheaded sister-in-law tells you she thinks you should talk to someone, a professional, she clarifies when you tell her you're talking to her right now. Paula is a nice woman who works at her hospital and knows more than most about the demands of your life.

You go. You go through the motions and go through your emotions and it doesn't fix you, but it does help.

And you're not happy, but you're closer.

The girl you consider a little sister, the one who kissed you last summer, turns sixteen, and everyone can't help but notice the two empty chairs at the table and two less voices in the chorus of "Happy Birthday." She starts driving and dating a boy from her school and you and her father tag team a sex safety talk which embarrasses you all in equal measure.

A secret burns bright in her eyes, and she finally admits she's been stealing her sister's abandoned birth control pills, refilling the prescription behind her father's back. It is a lot to handle, and her father—your surrogate father—tries to take a few too many sleeping pill once he hears, but you stop him, and he cries in your arms and admits he needs help. You tell him you know a great therapist, and you actually mean it.

You settle in. You start exercising more and drinking less and getting your full eight hours. When you're asked to watch your niece and nephew over Valentine's weekend you don't hesitate to say yes. And you have fun. You laugh. You watch an animated spy show for children and don't hate it.

March 5th is the first birthday without your second mother. You get calls from friends and family. But not from her. A few of your friends drag you out to a bar filled with woman. None of them catch your eye, but you catch a few of theirs. One woman even suggests you meet her in the bathroom in five minutes. You think about it, before guilt tightens your gut. You tell her no, thank you. But she is pretty, and you are flattered and a little warm.

During your next shift at work, a call comes in. The wildfire everyone said was not a threat is approaching Olympic National Forest.

This, you will later find out, is the catalyst.

The call that changes the rest of your life.

You could cut the tension in this room with a feather. Parker's stuffed dolphin would act like a grenade in here.

Brady and Mia are in yet another standoff. They happen so often it stopped being fun to bet on when it would happen again. That's how common it is.

Today's, it seems, is brought on by Brady's sloppy hose storage. A lot of things, I've come realize, can sound like a euphemism when you're a firefighter. Hose. Pole. Drill. Ram. If my sex drive were higher, I might even laugh at the thought.

"You roll it right now, so it unrolls right later," Mia says for the fourth time. She is Fed Up.

He attempts a charming smile, but at my throat clear, he nods wordlessly and begins unspooling the hose for the third time.

It's not that Brady is a bad firefighter. It's that, for Brady, the coolest thing about this job is the proximity to big-time flames. The protocol is boring, but necessary—something he hasn't quite grasped yet. In my new role, I've had to help guide him along.

Taking pity on him, I pull the hose from his arms and tilt my head. "Come on. If you lay it flat, it works better."

Outside in the small fire station courtyard, I help him lay out the hose, and show him a few different methods for rolling tight and clean, the way Mia prefers.

"That makes sense," he says after I finish the demonstration and move back so he can try. "I think if Mia spent less time hating me and more time telling me what to fix, I'd actually get somewhere."

I grin. "Seems to me she spends plenty of time telling you what to fix, just not how. Are you ever going to tell anyone what the hell happened on Karaoke Night?"

Brady's cheeks turn a muted burgundy. "Well, we—"

But his confession is cut short by the trill of the alarm, and we burst into action, moving in synchronized and second-nature movements as we head inside, gear up, and listen to the details.

It seems the wildfire has breached Olympic borders, and has been spotted near the Hoh Rainforest Visitor's Center. It was a drier winter than normal, which contributed to the problem. Global warming is a bitch.

Chief Marston appears in his office doorway. "Ateara, you take the lead on this. Take Shelton and Fuller. Simpson," he says, shouting to Omar. "You drive."

Omar turns the thirty-minute drive into a twenty, and I spend it all radioing with dispatch, park rangers, police to come up with a plan of attack. The closer we grow, the more the black smoke becomes visible, hanging low in the atmosphere, oppressed by the weight of the clouds.

"At least it's not tourist season," Brady offers halfheartedly as we roll up to the command center, past the roadblocks. On the way in, we saw police had already cordoned off the area by the cabins and were directing vehicle traffic to turn around.

As the crew readies the truck, I head to the officer in charge. They're easy to pinpoint, with some practice: always talking into a walkie-talkie, pointing fingers. Others look to them in their spare seconds.

"Lieutenant Ateara," I say when I reach her, hand outstretched. It still feels weird to introduce myself that way.

"Sergeant Brooks," she says, shaking my hand with a firm grip. On the hood of her cruiser a map lays spread open. Nothing like old-school technology.

"You probably saw, we had the roads blocked off already." She points, following the road with her finger. "Cabins to the west and south have been evacuated. What I'd like from your team is to do a sweep of the campgrounds to the east, closer to the fire, to check for backpackers on foot."

"These three?" I ask, circling the perimeter. It's a bigger job than it looks at first glance. I'll have to call in backup, and it could take thirty minutes to an hour for someone to get here.

"It's spreading quickly. The ranger reckons you have an hour if it rains." At her words, we both look up to the sky. It's dry.

That settles it, then.

Back at the rig, I debrief Mia and Brady, and instruct Omar to hang back at the truck and liaison between the police and the station.

We set off on the trail, choosing a pace somewhere between a brisk walk and a light jog. This gear is oppressively heavy, but this is what we train for.

Thanks to our wolf hearing, Brady and I hear the whimpers long before Mia does. Her mind must be elsewhere, because she doesn't question why I pull us off course. I call it in to Omar and dispatch on my radio, and we set off.

The fire is close. I can hear it, smell the smoke. See the smoke, settling in under the treetops.

Please rain. Please rain. Please rain.

Mia is the one who spots her first, a woman in her late fifties, just off the path and huddled near a thick oak tree trunk.

She isn't even the one who's whimpering. It's the dog in her arms. A border collie, like Embry's.

"Oh, there's no need for all this commotion," she calls to us, voice shaky, but as we get closer I see blood dripping down her face and neck from a nasty three-inch laceration across her temple. "Just a little scrape."

"Hi ma'am," Brady says first, dropping down to his knees. He grins his most charming smile at her, and I move back to call in the injury. "Looks like you took a tumble." He nods to her broken leg. I can see the bone.

The woman nods, her eyes growing glassy. "Been here a minute or two. Was just taking my dog out for a walk."

"On the side of the mountain?" Mia questions, but somehow manages to make her voice just joking enough that the woman smiles. She unhooks her pack and starts getting out gauze and other supplies.

"Ateara," the Sergeant calls over the radio. "Another crew just arrived from Quinault and are en route to you. What's the triage level?"

Triage is a coding system, a little bit different everywhere. It decides how severe a patient's injuries are and whether immediate action is required. It works backwards: a level five is the stuff you could have just gone to urgent care for. A level two is the lights-and-sirens show in the ambulance. Level one is CPR and defibrillation.

I turn back to the patient, where Brady is making her laugh while Mia braces her leg, open fracture and all. "She's in shock," I say quietly into the receiver, explaining her injuries. "Shelton all but shoved her fibula back in just now and she hardly blinked. She's a three, maybe two and a half depending on that head wound."

By the time I return to the trio, Mia is finished with the leg splint and is now covering up the break site with a silver foil blanket. She talks a big game, claims she doesn't have a heart, but Mia is attentive in ways other people don't think about.

Brady's working on the head wound, attempting to clean the blood away. There is a pile of gauze at his side, all soaked.

"Quil," he murmurs lightheartedly. "I must have forgotten to restock my gauze. Can I have some of yours?"

I want to chew him out, but that's when I see how big the pile actually is. That's almost double a full stock, not counting the thick layer he has pressed to the wound, and he's gone through them all. She's bleeding profusely.

"Here, Brady," Mia says, a tight smile on her face. "Since you're so forgetful." She hands him her own supply, also almost double. To me, she says, "Respiration rate is 29."

I radio back to the sergeant, "Level two triage. Send EMS."

"Copy."

"Will it be a while?" the woman says, her eyes fluttering. "I might just take a nap…"

"Quil," Brady says in alarm. He reaches out for the woman to shake her awake, but pauses. That head wound is no joke. It's already soaked the fresh gauze. Again.

"I know," I say. I try to rouse the woman by shouting, snapping, waving a packet of smelling salts beneath her nose. Nothing works.

"Her leg wound isn't bleeding anymore," Mia notes.

Fuck. That means she's losing too much blood, that her body has decided to save it for the vital organs. Brady rips open my package of gauze. If we were back by the truck, we'd have more supplies, but even then, we aren't paramedics. This is all we have. Gauze, bandages, icepacks, tape, CPR masks, and a foldable C-spine collar.

"We've gotta get this head wound to stop bleeding," Mia says. She rummages in her bag before coming up with the icepack, cracking it in the middle to activate. Getting the wound cold could cause the blood to coagulate, which would help our problem immensely.

"Fucking genius," Brady murmurs.

But Mia doesn't get the chance to fully show her genius, because Brady curses as his fingers feel the woman's neck. "No pulse. No respiration."

"Heart attack," I guess, forcing my panic to rewire into adrenaline.

My crew helps me get her laid out, Brady supporting the woman's neck and shoulders, popping on that C-spine collar because this is obviously more severe than we originally thought. The dog stays by her side—in the way if I'm being honest—but I think its presence is providing us all a little comfort.

I start compressions as Brady keeps her head stabilized and Mia holds pressure to the wound. But every time I beat her heart for her, I see my efforts wasted as that blood spills onto the gauze.

Brady keeps saying my name, like I can't see what's happening. "Quil, we can't keep this up." He says what we all already know.

It's a catch 22, her heart or her head. If I don't keep her heart beating her brain won't have enough oxygen to ever function properly again. And if we don't close that head wound, I'm going to kill her with my bare hands, one compression at a time.

"Pack the wound as best you can. Put the cold pack on top, then gauze the fuck out of it," I tell Mia. I'm surprised I can sound so calm when my insides are a storm of chaos and doubt.

"We're almost out of gauze," she says, heeding my instructions anyway.

Brady stands to his knees as best he can, then reaches for his jacket to take it off.

"No," I say, keeping my compressions steady. I can hear the forest fire getting closer. Up by the road, I hear the second crew arrive. They're not our people, but we can't afford to be picky. "Keep that on."

"She's going to bleed out," Brady protests, his voice hoarse.

"She's already bleeding out," Mia says, not unkindly.

I keep up compressions, singing under my breath. I've always preferred "Dancing Queen" to "Stayin' Alive." It's less macabre. It was a song Hannah liked, one of the ones she used to dance around the kitchen with the girls to. I feel her here with me, her voice in my head and her hands on mine, helping me to push through.

My muscles burn. There's a rock under my knee. The rain finally started at some point, filtering down through the tree canopy and dampening the sounds of the forest fire less than a half-mile from us. It will help that problem, but not this one. My hands keep slipping off.

"Quil," Mia says. "Let me take over."

"No," I say back.

Because it won't matter if I stop now or keep going. And if there is going to be blood on anyone's hands, it will be mine.

I look to the woman's face, and it almost transforms in the haze of the rain and my hot tears. She is every woman I love, laying there. It could be Hannah. My mother. Claire.

That's what keeps me moving, lets me push past my fatigue. Allows me to keep singing that stupid fucking song. Brady hums along with me, even though he's more than sniffling as he continues to hold this stranger's neck steady.

By the time the other crew rounds that final bend, Mia is humming too. And crying. Her hands never slacken on the head wound.

Turns out there's blood on their hands anyway.