Chapter 5

I went with Jackson. No part of me wanted to, and a big part of me said to let whoever he’d fished out of the water die—alone, in agony, it wasn’t my concern. But I kept thinking about what I’d been forced to do for my mother the night before. I kept thinking, Do no harm.

I kept thinking about Kaylie—and trying not to.

So I went with Jackson. I didn’t ask or even wonder which of the three outsiders had survived, but when I stepped through the metal door of Jackson’s shack onto a knotty wood floor, when I saw the unconscious body on a pile of blankets on that floor, the first thing I noticed was his hair.

Reddish brown.

It no longer hung in his face. It was matted to skin so pale I thought he might already be dead. Instinct took over, and I knelt beside him. I was in no way qualified to do this. I wasn’t a doctor. I’d never worked in a burn unit or emergency room. I didn’t even have my nursing degree yet.

But I was here, and he was on the floor.

I pressed my index and middle finger to his carotid artery. His pulse was racing. A jolt cut through my body with every beat. I held a hand over his mouth. He was breathing. I lowered my head and turned it sideways, listening to those breaths with my face close to his.

His breathing was labored—but clear.

I pulled back enough for my hand to snake in and put pressure on his chin, opening his mouth. The next thing I knew, a flashlight had been placed in my free hand.

Jackson. “Tell me what else you need,” the fisherman grunted.

I needed a doctor, an actual nurse, anyone with the experience to do this, but barring that, I needed to finish checking my patient’s airways—clear.

What now? I looked for the head wound, pushing my fingers back into a thick and tangled mess of damp hair, prodding gently until I found it. Back of his head. If there was any internal bleeding, we were screwed, but I tried not to dwell on that as I used my fingers to spread his hair, taking measure of the wound.

“I need to clean this,” I told Jackson. “I’ll need something to cut his hair with, a clean washcloth, antiseptic, butterfly bandages if you have them.” I withdrew my hands from the boy’s hair and turned my attention from the head wound to the rest of his body. “Second-degree burns on his arms and over his collarbone,” I noted.

Very little remained of his shirt, but what there was, I tore off, except where it stuck to burns.

“I’m going to have to clean this and dress his wounds. Chest and torso, here…” I let my fingers hover over the indicated location. “Those burns are third degree, but they’re smaller than the others and not on the extremities, which is good—better blood flow, smaller chance of infection.”

I took a ragged breath and returned to Jackson’s question. What do I need?

“Gauze, cloths, cool water. Any and all pain medication you have.” I wracked my brain. What else? “If we were in a hospital, I’d start an IV—fluids first, then antibiotics.”

Jackson left the shack without a word, and just like that, I was alone with an unconscious Toby Hawthorne.

H-A-N-N-A-H. I could hear him spelling out my name in my memory. If you’re a Hanna without the h on the end, I don’t want to know.

It had been easier when I wasn’t thinking of the body on the floor as anything other than a patient, a collection of wounds, because the second I started thinking of him as someone I’d met, the second I thought about the bar, I flashed back to the way Kaylie had smiled that night.

Dance with me, you beautiful bitch.

I hadn’t. I hadn’t danced with her. I hadn’t walked her all the way home. I hadn’t made sure she didn’t go back out. Your loss, you glorious thing, you.

The door to the shack slammed open, and Jackson dropped a beat-up suitcase onto the floor.

“What’s this?” I asked, the words getting caught in my throat.

“I like to be prepared.” Jackson’s voice still sounded hoarse, and it occurred to me to wonder exactly how close to the fire on Hawthorne Island he’d gotten.

Smoke inhalation? It wasn’t like I had oxygen—for either of them.

Focus on what you can do, I thought. With shaking hands, I unzipped the suitcase Jackson had dumped on the floor. Inside, there was a mess of medical supplies. I spotted the arthritis cream I’d bought him, but that was just the tip of the totally chaotic and disorganized iceberg. In any other circumstance, the fact that the recluse had so many medical supplies would have made him look unhinged and paranoid, but even a broken clock was right twice a day.

I started sorting through the mess, pulling the supplies I needed. Gauze pads—three sizes, sterile. Bandages. Over-the-counter pain meds—acetaminophen and ibuprofen. Gauze rolls. Iodine wipes, alcohol wipes…

“Saline.” That surprised me enough that I said it out loud. Why would a recluse have a bag of saline—more than one, actually, with lines attached? I looked up at Jackson. “If I dig around in here, am I going to find a catheter and needle?”

“Like I said.” Jackson grunted. “I like to be prepared.”

He lived in a shack that probably could have qualified as a bunker. Was I really all that surprised? “Do you know what to do with any of it?” I queried.

Jackson threw his hands up in the air. “Would I have dragged you out here if I did?”

The boy on the floor chose that moment to suck in a frantic breath—and moan.

“Have you given him anything for the pain?” I asked Jackson.

“I was too damn busy saving his life.”

I grabbed a bottle of pills and considered propping my patient up, but given the burns, I didn’t want to risk lifting his upper body. Instead, I cupped a hand behind his head, gently pulling it toward me.

“I’m going to open your mouth now,” I told Toby Hawthorne. I had no idea if he could hear me, no idea if I wanted him to be able to hear me. “I’m going to put pills in, one at a time.” I looked to Jackson. “Get me some water.” Unless and until I got some morphine, alternating large doses of the two over-the-counter medicines was my best bet.

I placed the first pill on Toby’s tongue. His breath was warm against my hand. I brought water to his lips, then did my best to help him drink. I closed his mouth, willing him to swallow.

And that was when he opened his eyes, so dark a green I could almost imagine them black. Those eyes locked on to mine. He should have been moaning, writhing, screaming, but he was silent. He swallowed the pill.

As I placed the next one in his mouth, all I could think was that his face wasn’t burned at all.