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“Unless he’s hurt,” Tessa says. “Then he’s probably just off the street, right here.”
We slow as the faint scent of water and cold, wet earth fills the air. Lake Mendota spreads, dark and endless, lights flickering across the bay. It’s quiet and frigging cold. The wind coming from the lake has dropped but it still has knives in it.
We step off the path, into the dimly lit night, our footsteps crunching on stiff grass and the hard ground.
Is this a mistake? Should we head back to State Street and continue looking there?
Then I stop, almost falling over.
A black shape is barely visible under the bare trees. A slumped human form seated at the roots, a dark head bowed forward.
The air leaves my lungs. Unable to speak, I reach around and grab Tessa’s arm. She halts, and Zane comes to stand beside me.
“Audrey? What is it?”
I pull Tessa with me as I lurch toward the person seated with his back to the tree trunk. “There.”
I suppose it could be just anyone, but somehow I know. The set of the shoulders, the profile—even in the dimness I know it’s him.
Finally I get some breath back into my lungs.
“Ash!” I stumble to my knees by his side. His eyes are closed and his face is ice cold under my hand. “Can you hear me?”
“I’m calling 911,” Tessa says faintly, pulling out her cell and stepping aside.
Zane grabs Ash’s chin. “Ash, wake up. Come on, fucker. Say something.”
“They’re sending the EMTs. They’re asking if he’s awake,” Tessa says, coming to stand over us, and Zane shakes his head. “He’s breathing, right?”
Warm air washes over my fingertips when I place them over his mouth. “Yes.”
“Is he injured?”
I’m about to say I don’t know, when Zane says, “Yeah.”
The word drops like a stone. “What is it?”
Zane lifts his hand, wiggles his fingers. “Blood. He’s bleeding.”
“Can you see the wound?” Tessa’s voice wavers.
Zane fumbles with Ash’s jacket, lifting it. “Looks like a wound in his side. Can’t see much, it’s too dark here. Cut clean through the jacket.”
This is like a nightmare. My nightmare, where Ash is in the car with me, where I watch him die and can’t do a thing to stop it.
“Ash.” I stroke his short hair. “He’s frozen stiff.” My fingers trail down his face and come away wet and sticky. More blood. Jesus.
Zane shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over Ash. “They’ll be here soon.”
I want to draw Ash into my arms, as much to warm him up as to reassure myself he’s there, solid and alive. But I don’t dare. I don’t know how hurt he is.
The police arrive first. They bring flashlights and when they light up Ash’s face, my heart drops. His face is one big bruise, one eye swollen shut. They also ask if Ash is breathing, if he’s hurt. I let Zane and Tessa explain.
Then the ambulance arrives and suddenly we’re surrounded by uniformed paramedics and more flashlights cut glowing trails through the night. They check Ash and talk to him, shout at him until he mutters something.
Awake. He’s awake.
They seem satisfied with his response. As I try to calm my racing pulse, they examine the cut in his side and pack gauze on it. I catch words on the rising wind about internal bleeding and blood loss, frostnip and hypothermia.
