Chapter Text
The silence in the loft was not peaceful. It was heavy, a physical weight that pressed against Buck’s chest, making it hard to draw a full breath.
Dust motes danced in the shaft of afternoon sunlight cutting across the concrete floor, illuminating the space where his life had effectively stalled. On the kitchen island was the stacks of legal paperwork, highlighters, sticky notes with scribbled arguments about wrongful termination and hostile work environments.
He stared at them, feeling a wave of nausea roll through him.
He had dropped the lawsuit. He had walked into the lawyer's office three hours ago, signed the withdrawal papers, and walked out. It was over. The fight against the city, the department, and most painfully, against Bobby Nash, was over.
But there was no victory parade. There was no sense of relief. There was just the crushing realization of what he had done. He had nuked the only home he had ever known. He had dragged his family’s names through the mud, forced them to listen, forced them to pick sides. And for what? To prove he was ready?
"You are not ready," Bobby’s voice echoed in his head, a ghost from months ago.
Buck grabbed a trash bag from under the sink. With jerky, almost violent movements, he swept the legal papers off the counter and into the black plastic abyss.
The sound of the paper crinkling was the only noise in the apartment.
He wasn't getting his job back. That much was clear. You don't sue the Captain of the 118, accuse the city of discrimination, and then just show up for a shift the next day. He had burned the bridge, then poured gasoline on the ashes.
So, what now?
He looked around the loft. It didn't feel like home anymore. It felt like a cage. Every corner held a memory of a time when he had a purpose. The spot by the stairs where Eddie had laughed at a joke. The kitchen where he had cooked for the team, where Bobby helped him learn a new recipe. The balcony where he had stood with Chimney, watching the city lights having a beer. The dining table where Maddie and him had their meaningful conversations.
He couldn't stay here. If he stayed, he would just be the guy who used to be a firefighter. The guy who sued his friends. The guy who broke everything he touched.
He needed to go. Not just out of the loft, but away. Far enough that the sound of the LAFD radios couldn't reach him. Far enough that he couldn't accidentally drive past the station and see the trucks rolling out without him.
He pulled his phone from his pocket. The screen was blank. No notifications. No one was calling. Why would they? He was the enemy now.
He opened a travel app, his thumb hovering over the screen. He didn't have a plan. He just needed a direction. North? Too cold. East? Too much land. He needed the ocean. The water had always been the only thing that could quiet the noise in his head. Even the tsunami hadn't taken that away from him.
Honolulu. One way. Departing in four hours.
He booked it before he could talk himself out of it.
Packing was a blur. He threw clothes into a duffel bag without checking what they were. T shirts, shorts, a hoodie. He didn't pack his uniform. He didn't pack the framed photo of the 118 he kept on his nightstand. He left the photo face down on the wood.
He stood by the door, the duffel slung over his shoulder. He looked back one last time.
"Goodbye, Buck," he whispered to the empty room.
LAX was a sensory nightmare of noise and people, but Buck moved through it like a ghost. He felt untethered, drifting through security, drifting to the gate. He kept his head down, cap pulled low, terrified he would see someone he knew. A paramedic, a cop, anyone who would look at him with that mixture of pity and judgment he had grown to hate.
He sat at the gate and looked at his phone again.
Create New Message.
To: Maddie.
Cursor blinking.
I’m sorry.
Delete.
I’m leaving for a while.
Delete.
I dropped the lawsuit.
Delete.
He stared at the screen until his vision blurred. If he told
them where he was going, they would worry. Or worse, they wouldn't care. Or even worse, they would come looking for him out of obligation, dragging him back to face the mess he had made.
He didn't want to be Evan Buckley, the problem to be solved. He wanted to be… nothing. He wanted to be a smudge on a blank screen.
"Flight 402 to Honolulu is now boarding all groups," the intercom announced.
Buck took a deep breath. He held the power button on the side of his phone. The screen prompted him.
Slide to power off.
He didn't hesitate. He slid his thumb across the glass.
The little spinning wheel appeared, and then the screen went black.
He shoved the dead phone deep into the side pocket of his carry on. He wouldn't turn it on again. Not until he figured out who he was supposed to be when he wasn't a firefighter.
The air in Hawaii was different.
That was the first thing he noticed when he stepped out of the Airport. It was thick, heavy with humidity and the scent of plumeria and diesel fuel. It sat on his skin instantly, a warm blanket that felt shockingly intimate after the recycled air of the plane.
He rented a Jeep something open, something that rattled when it hit 50 miles per hour. He didn't go to a hotel in Waikiki. He drove North. He wanted the shore where the buildings were short and the waves were tall.
He found a small, rusted out rental bungalow near Haleiwa. It had no A/C, just a ceiling fan that clicked rhythmically and windows that didn't have glass, only screens to keep the bugs out. It was perfect.
For the first three days, Buck did nothing.
He slept for twelve hours at a time, his body crashing after months of high adrenaline stress. He ate from food trucks garlic shrimp, poke bowls, shaved ice. He sat on the lanai and watched the geckos crawl across the screens.
He didn't turn on the TV. He didn't look for a newspaper. And he didn't touch the phone buried in his bag.
On the fourth day, the silence of the bungalow started to itch. His Buck energy that restless, golden retriever need to do something was waking up.
He drove the Jeep down to a stretch of beach that looked less populated. The sand was coarse and golden, the ocean a terrifyingly beautiful shade of turquoise that deepened to ink blue further out.
He sat on the hood of the Jeep, watching the surfers.
They were incredible. It wasn't like the casual surfing he had seen in Santa Monica. This was a religion. He watched a guy on a shortboard cut back against a wall of water that had to be ten feet high, spraying a fan of white mist into the air. He watched a woman on a longboard cross step to the nose, hanging ten with a grace that made her look like she was walking on a sidewalk, not a moving force of nature.
"You gonna stare all day, or you gonna get in?"
Buck jumped, nearly sliding off the hood.
Standing near the front bumper was a guy who looked like he had been carved out of koa wood. He was shirtless, wearing board shorts that had seen better days, with a tangle of sun bleached hair and a grin that took up half his face. He was holding a board under one arm and a wax comb in the other.
"Uh," Buck stammered. "I don't have a board."
"I see that," the guy said. He jerked a thumb toward a beat up Toyota Tacoma parked a few spots down. Two other people were sitting on the tailgate a woman with zinc on her nose and wild curly hair, and another guy who looked younger, maybe early twenties, waxing a board furiously. "I'm Kai. That's Alana and Kekoa."
"I'm... Evan," Buck said. The name felt strange on his tongue. He hadn't introduced himself as just 'Evan' in years. It was always Buck.
"Shoots, Evan," Kai nodded. "You look like a guy who needs to get wet. You from the mainland?"
"LA," Buck admitted.
"Plastic city," Alana called out from the truck, her voice raspy and amused. She hopped off the tailgate and walked over. She was small but clearly wiry and strong, with scars on her knees that spoke of coral reefs and bad wipeouts. "You run away from reality, Evan?"
Buck felt his chest tighten. "Something like that."
Alana studied him for a second, her dark eyes sharp. She didn't ask what he ran from. She didn't ask about the shadows under his eyes or the way his shoulders were hunched defensively. She just shrugged.
"Well, the ocean don't care where you came from," she said. "Only cares if you respect it."
"We got a spare one in the back," Kekoa piped up, tossing the wax into the truck bed. "It's a boat, practically surfs itself. You paddle out, we show you the lineup. Good way to clear the head, brah."
Buck looked at the ocean. It looked powerful. Cleansing.
"I've never really surfed," Buck said. "Not like this."
Kai laughed, a booming sound that startled a nearby seagull. "Nobody starts like this. You start by falling. Come on, Let's go."
Buck fell. A lot.
The board they gave him was a nine foot beast, yellowed with age and covered in pressure dings, but it floated him easily. The problem wasn't the board, it was the ocean. The currents here were alive, tugging at his legs, dragging him sideways.
"Paddle hard!" Kai yelled from twenty feet away, sitting effortlessly on his board while the swell rose and fell beneath him. "Don't fight the water, Evan! Move with it!"
Buck gritted his teeth, digging his arms into the water. His shoulders burned a good burn, a familiar burn. It felt like training. It felt like working.
He missed a wave. Then another. Then, he caught the white water of a smaller one. He felt the push, the sudden acceleration that lurched in his stomach. He scrambled to his feet, wobbly and ungraceful.
He stood for exactly three seconds. The wind rushed past his ears, the spray hit his face, and for those three seconds, his mind was completely, blissfully blank. No lawsuit. No Bobby. No lawsuit. Just balance.
Then the nose of the board dipped, and he went over, tumbling over.
He surfaced, sputtering, hair plastered to his eyes.
Kai was laughing, paddling over to check on him. "There he is! The ocean get you good?"
"Yeah," Buck gasped, wiping the salt from his eyes. He was grinning. He realized with a jolt that he was actually grinning. "It got me good."
"That was a good drop, though," Alana said, paddling past them toward the break. "You got balance. You skate?"
"Uh, no," Buck said, hauling himself back onto the board. "Firefighter. Used to be."
The words slipped out before he could stop them. He tensed, waiting for the questions. Used to be? What happened? Did you get fired?
But Alana just nodded. "Heavy job. Makes sense why you're here. The water takes the heavy stuff away."
She didn't ask for more. She turned and paddled for a set wave, catching it with a ferocity that made Buck’s jaw drop.
They stayed out until the sun began to dip, turning the sky into a bruised purple and orange. Buck’s arms felt like jelly. His skin was stinging from the sun and the salt.
He was exhausted in a way that felt pure.
When they finally dragged themselves onto the sand, Kekoa tossed him a towel.
"You not bad, Evan," Kekoa said. "For a mainlander."
"Thanks," Buck huffed a laugh, drying his hair.
"We come out every morning at six," Kai said, strapping his board to the roof of the Tacoma. "Before the tourists wake up. Best glass. You should come."
It was an invitation into a circle. A circle that didn't know about the ladder truck bombing. Didn't know about the blood thinners. Didn't know he was the guy who sued his family.
"Yeah," Buck said, and he meant it. "I will be here."
Buck watched them drive off, the taillights fading into the dusk. He stood alone on the beach, the roar of the ocean filling the silence that usually terrified him.
He walked back to his Jeep. He reached into his bag to grab his keys and his hand brushed against the cold, dead phone.
For a second, the anxiety spiked. He wondered if he should check it. Just for a second. Just to see if Maddie had called. If Bobby had...
No.
He pulled his hand away. He didn't want to know. If he turned it on, he was Buck again. Here, with the salt drying on his skin and his muscles aching from the paddle, he was just Evan.
He started the Jeep and drove away, leaving the phone dark.
Los Angeles
The loft was dark when Bobby knocked on the door.
"Buck?"
Bobby waited. He knocked again, louder this time. "Buck, it’s Bobby. Open up."
Silence.
Bobby sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. He looked at Athena, who was watching him. She gave him a small nod of encouragement.
"He's probably just avoiding you," Eddie said.
Bobby turned. Eddie was standing at the top of the stairs, leaning against the railing. He looked tired, his arms crossed over his chest, a scowl etched deep into his forehead.
"He withdrew the lawsuit, Eddie," Bobby said. "The LAFD lawyers called me this morning. It’s done. I’ve been trying to call him all day to tell him... to tell him he can come back. I talked to the brass. With the lawsuit gone, I can reinstate him."
"Yeah, well, he's not answering me either," Eddie muttered. "I have called him six times. Straight to voicemail."
Bobby felt a prickle of unease on the back of his neck. It wasn't like Buck to ignore them. If he dropped the lawsuit, surely he did it to come back? Unless... unless he dropped it because he gave up.
"Do you have a key?" Bobby asked.
"Yeah," Eddie said. He fished a key from his pocket. "For emergencies."
"This feels like one."
Eddie unlocked the door and pushed it open.
"Buck?" Eddie called out, stepping into the massive, open space.
The loft was eerily quiet. The air was stale, like the windows hadn't been opened in days.
Bobby followed him in, his eyes scanning the room. It was too tidy. The counters were bare. The usual clutter of Buck’s life gym bags, books, protein shakers was gone.
Eddie walked to the kitchen island. "His lawsuit papers are in the bin."
Bobby walked to the bedroom area, upstairs. The bed was made, but stripped of the comforter. The closet door was open. It wasn't empty, but it was thinner. The duffel bag Buck used for the gym was missing.
Bobby walked over to the nightstand. The framed photo of the team, the one taken at the barbecue last Fourth of July was lying face down.
Bobby picked it up. He stared at Buck’s smiling face in the glass, a knot tightening in his stomach.
"He's gone," Bobby said, his voice hollow.
"What?" Eddie hurried up the stairs. He looked around the room, the realization dawning on his face. "Where would he go?"
"I don't know," Bobby said. He pulled out his phone and dialed Maddie.
She answered on the first ring. "Bobby? Is he okay? I haven't heard from him in days."
"Maddie," Bobby said gently. "We are at the loft. He is not here. His bag is gone. Did he tell you he was going somewhere?"
There was a silence on the line, then the sound of Maddie’s breath hitching. "He... he said he needed to clear his head. The morning he dropped the suit, he said he felt like he was drowning here. But I didn't think he would just leave."
"He thinks he is fired," Eddie said, his voice rising, cracking with frustration. "He dropped the suit and he thinks that's it. He thinks we hate him."
"We will find him," Bobby said, though he was looking at the empty space where Buck should be, feeling the profound absence of the youngest member of their team. "Maddie, if he contacts you, tell him to call me immediately. Tell him he has a job."
"I will," Maddie whispered.
Bobby hung up. He looked at Eddie. Eddie was gripping the railing so hard his knuckles were white.
"He thinks he is alone," Eddie said quietly. "He's out there somewhere thinking he has nobody."
"He will come back," Bobby said, trying to convince himself as much as Eddie. "He always comes back."
North Shore, Oahu
Buck sat on the lanai of his bungalow, listening to the gecko chirp in the dark. The ocean was a heartbeat in the distance, a heartbeat that was slower and steadier than his own.
He took a sip of a cold beer, feeling the trade winds ruffle his hair.
He felt calm, his chest didn't hurt. He felt... clear. He was just a guy on an island. Tomorrow, he would wake up before six. He would meet Kai and Alana. He would paddle out. He would fall, and he would get back up.
He looked at his duffel bag in the corner, where his phone was buried like a fossil.
Let it stay dead, he thought. I'm better off without the past right now.
He closed his eyes and listened to the waves, unaware of the storm gathering on the horizon.
For now, there was just the drift. And it felt like peace.
Los Angeles
The silence of the phone was louder than the siren of the ladder truck.
In Los Angeles, the sun was fighting its way through a layer of smog, casting a hazy, grey light over the 118 firehouse. It had been four days. Ninety six hours since Bobby stood in the empty loft and realized his youngest, most impulsive, most heart on his sleeve firefighter had left them.
Eddie sat on the bench in the locker room, his elbows on his knees, his head hanging low. In his hands, his phone was unlocked, the screen glowing with a text thread that was entirely one sided.
Where are you?
Buck, answer the phone.
Bobby says you dropped the suit. Just call me.
Chris is asking about you.
You are an idiot. Call me.
Please.
Eddie stared at the last message, sent at 3:00 AM after a nightmare he couldn't remember, only that it ended with him reaching for a hand that wasn't there. The 'Read' receipt never appeared. Just the cold, grey 'Delivered.'
"You are going to burn a hole in that screen, Diaz."
Eddie looked up. Chimney was standing by his locker, pulling on his station shirt. Chim looked tired, the usual bounce in his step replaced by a heavy, confused slump.
"He has never been quiet this long," Eddie said, his voice rough. "Even when he was mad at me about the things... even when he was dealing with stuff. He is loud. He makes noise. Silence isn't him."
"Maybe he just needs time," Chimney suggested, though he didn't sound convinced. "He thinks he blew up his life. He probably thinks we are all throwing a party that he is gone."
"He knows better than that," Eddie snapped, standing up and shoving his phone into his pocket. The anger was easier to manage than the fear. The anger was a shield. "He knows we are a family. You don't just walk out on family without a goodbye."
Up in the loft, the mood was just as grim. Bobby stood at the stove, chopping onions for a dish he did not really want to make.
"Cap," Hen said softly, leaning against the counter. "Any word from Athena?"
Bobby stopped chopping. He set the knife down with precise, controlled deliberation. "They confirmed an Evan Buckley flew out of LAX on Tuesday night. One way ticket."
Hen let out a breath. "To where?"
"Honolulu," Bobby said. He looked out the window, past the trucks, toward the west where the ocean was. "He went to Hawaii."
"Hawaii?" Hen repeated, a flicker of hope in her voice. "Okay. Hawaii is good. Hawaii is... vacations and cocktails. Maybe he is just sitting on a beach, getting a tan, working up the courage to call."
"Maddie says his phone goes straight to voicemail," Bobby said. "She has tried calling the hotels, but there are hundreds of them, and they can't give out that information. If he rented a private place... he could be anywhere on the island."
"He is safe, though," Hen said, trying to manifest the truth of it. "He is on land. He is not in a burning building. He is just... taking time."
Bobby picked up the knife again. "I just hope he knows he has a home back here. I spent months keeping him away for his own good, and now..." His voice cracked, just a fraction. "Now I would give anything just to see him doing something reckless in my station."
North Shore, Oahu
Four thousand miles away, the world was not grey. It was a beautiful scenery of impossible blues and vibrant greens.
Buck, no Evan, he reminded himself woke up before the alarm. The sun was not even up yet, the sky a deep indigo bruising into violet over the mountains. The air in the bungalow was cool, smelling of damp earth and the salt spray that coated everything within a mile of the shoreline.
He stretched, his back popping. For the first time in six months, he didn't wake up checking his blood thinners. He didn't wake up checking the time to make a shift. He just woke up. He pulled on a pair of board shorts and grabbed a banana from the counter, eating it in three bites as he walked out to the Jeep.
The drive to the beach was his new meditation. No radios. No sirens. Just the wind whipping through the open frame of the Jeep and the sound of the tires on the road. He felt light. It was a strange sensation, this lack of burden. He felt like a helium balloon that had slipped from a child’s hand, drifting higher, untethered.
When he pulled up to the spot, the Toyota Tacoma was already there. Kai was sitting on the tailgate, waxing his board, a thermos of coffee steaming beside him.
"Morning, mainlander," Kai called out, his grin white against the dawn.
"Morning," Buck said, hopping out. He grabbed the
borrowed longboard from the back of the Jeep. It was heavy, awkward under his arm, but he was getting used to the weight.
"Alana’s already out," Kai said, pointing toward the break. "Says the ocean is perfect today. No wind."
Buck squinted. He could see a silhouette bobbing on the water, way out past the break. "She never sleeps, does she?"
"Ocean sleeps," Kai said philosophically. "Alana just waits for it to wake up."
They walked down to the water together. The sand was cool under Buck’s feet. The ocean was quiet this morning, the roar muted to a hush, hush, hush as the waves rolled in. It looked inviting. Harmless.
"You ready to try the outside today?" Kai asked. "Waves are small. Three, maybe four foot. Good day to learn."
Buck looked at the white water where he had spent the last few days, battling the foam. Then he looked further out, to the clean, unbroken lines of the swell where Alana was sitting.
"Yeah," Buck said. He felt a surge of confidence. "I think I'm ready."
Paddling out was a battle. His shoulders burned, the muscles screaming in protest, but he pushed through.
The water was crystal clear beneath him. He could see the reef below, flashes of coral and the darting shadows of fish. It was a different world down there, silent and indifferent to the problems of men.
When he finally made it past the break, the water went still. He sat up on his board, straddling the fiberglass, and took a deep breath.
The view was breathtaking. The island rose up from the water like a sleeping giant, green and lush. From here, the problems of Los Angeles felt like they belonged to a different lifetime. The lawsuit, the anger, the feeling of being left behind, it all dissolved in the salt water.
"You made it," Alana said, paddling over. She was smiling, her hair wet and slicked back. "Welcome to the church, Evan."
"It is..." Buck searched for the word. "It is quiet."
"That is the point," she said.
For the next hour, Buck just watched. He watched Kai
paddle for a wave, two strokes, three, and then pop up in a fluid motion, carving a line across the face of the water. He watched Kekoa, who had joined them, laugh as he bailed on a section and splashed down.
Buck tried a few times. He paddled for a swell, felt the lift, tried to stand, and slid off. But he was not frustrated. Every time he surfaced, the cool water felt like a baptism.
"Okay, Evan!" Kai yelled from further down the line. "This one is yours! Paddle!"
Buck looked over his shoulder. A mound of blue water was approaching. It was not a monster, it was manageable. A gentle slope. He thought this would be a trigger for him, from the trauma of the tsunami, but instead, he felt a sense of peace with it.
He turned the board. He dug his arms in deep. One. Two. Three.
He felt the board lift. The energy of the ocean grabbed him, pushing him forward with a speed that always surprised him.
Don't think, he told himself. Just do.
He pushed up, swinging his legs under him. For a glorious, weightless moment, he was standing. He was gliding. The sound of the board cutting through the water was a crisp hiss. He felt the wind in his face, the sun on his back. He was flying.
"Yeah, Evan!" Alana’s cheer drifted over the water.
He was doing it. He was really doing it. A laugh bubbled up in his throat, and then the nose of the board caught a ripple.
The wipeout was clumsy. He pitched forward, flailing, and splashed into the water. It wasn't a bad fall. He didn't hit the reef. He just tumbled into the blue, the white foam churning around him.
He kicked his legs, orienting himself, swimming toward the surface. He broke the water, gasping for air, shaking the hair out of his eyes. He reached for his board, which was bobbing a few feet away attached to his ankle leash.
"Man," Buck laughed, wiping his face. "I almost had it."
He pulled on the leash, bringing the board closer. He threw his right arm over the deck, preparing to hoist himself up.
The water shifted.
It wasn't a sound. It was a displacement. A sudden, massive pressure change in the water beneath him. The birds went silent. The air seemed to vibrate.
Buck frowned, looking down. The water was clear, but deep.
Then, something slammed into him.
It felt like being hit by a truck. A silent, underwater truck. There was no warning, no dorsal fin cutting the water like in the movies. Just a sudden, violent force that yanked him downwards.
He didn't feel pain. Not at first. He felt pressure, immense, crushing pressure clamping down on his left calf.
"Arh!" he shouted, confusion overriding fear. He thought maybe his leash had caught on the reef.
Then the thrashing started. The world spun. The sky and the water became a blur of blue and white. He was being shaken, whipped back and forth with a ferocity that rattled his teeth. He gasped, swallowing salt water, his hands scrabbling frantically against the slippery surface of his surfboard.
Shark.
The word exploded in his brain. Buck screamed, the sound tearing from his throat, raw and terrified. He couldn't form words, the shock of what was happening to him...
He kicked out with his right leg, his bootie scraping against skin. He tried to pull his left leg free, but it was locked in a vice of serrated iron.
The water around him, pristine and turquoise a second ago, blossomed with a cloud of dark, opaque red.
It was hot. That was the thing that shocked him. The water suddenly felt hot.
"EVAN!"
He heard someone scream.
The shark jerked him again, pulling him under. Buck’s head went submerged. He opened his eyes in the salt.
Through the red haze, he saw the grey shape. It was massive. A shadow attached to him. He saw the eye, black, lifeless, rolling back.
Buck punched. He punched blindly into the water, his fist connecting with something hard and rough. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the pressure released.
Buck shot to the surface, gasping, choking on air and water. He grabbed the rail of his board, his grip slipping on the wax.
"Evan! Get on the board! Get on the board!" Kai was there. He was paddling like a demon, his face twisted in horror.
Buck tried to climb. He tried to swing his leg up. That was when the pain hit in full force.
It wasn't an ache. It was a white hot lightning bolt that severed his nervous system. It roared up his spine, blinding him. He looked down.
He expected to see a cut. He expected to see blood.
He didn't expect to see... nothing.
Just below his left knee, where his calf and foot should have been, there was just ragged flesh and bone, pumping bright crimson into the ocean with every beat of his heart.
"Oh god," Buck slurred. The strength drained out of him instantly. "Oh god."
"Grab him!" Alana was on his other side. She abandoned her board, diving into the bloody water. She grabbed Buck by the back of his rash guard and hauled him upward. "Kai, pull him!"
They dragged him onto Kai’s longboard. It was a chaotic scramble of limbs and terror. Buck was dead weight. The world was tilting, grey spots dancing in his vision.
"Don't look at it, Evan! Look at me!" Kai roared, his voice cracking. He was straddling the board, paddling furiously toward the shore. Alana was behind Buck, holding him steady, her legs kicking the water to propel them faster.
"My leg," Buck slurred out, his head lolling back against Alana’s chest. "It took my leg."
"We got you, brah. We got you," Kai yelled, but he wasn't looking at Buck. He was scanning the water, terrified the shark would come back.
The paddle to shore felt like it took hours. Every wave that bumped the board sent a fresh spike of agony through Buck’s body. He could feel his life draining out of him, warm and sticky, mixing with the cold ocean.
When the fin of the board scraped the sand, Kekoa was already running into the surf. He had seen the red water from the beach.
"Ute! Get the ute!" Alana screamed at him.
Kekoa didn't ask questions. He sprinted back toward the
parking lot.
Kai and Alana dragged Buck so he was laying on the board. His left leg bleed into the sand, leaving a gruesome trail. They didn't wait for a stretcher. They didn't wait for finesse. They had their board.
"One, two, three, UP!" Kai grunted.
They lifted him, Kai taking his shoulder end, Alana taking his leg end. They ran, as best they could.
Buck’s head bounced. He stared up at the sky. It was so blue. It was such a beautiful day. It was blurry. He felt tired.
I am going to die here, he thought. I’m going to die on a beach in Hawaii and Bobby is never going to know I was sorry.
They reached the parking lot just as Kekoa skid the Tacoma to a halt, dust flying. He dropped the tailgate with a clang.
"Get him in! Go, go, go!"
They shoved Buck into the metal bed of the truck. The metal was hot from the sun, his arm rested on it, it was hot on his skin, but he barely felt it.
"Ambulance is too far!" Kai yelled, jumping into the driver's seat. "We meet them on the highway! Call 911!"
Alana jumped into the back with Buck. Kekoa jumped in beside her. The truck peeled out, tires screeching on the asphalt, throwing Buck against the wheel well.
"Pressure!" Alana screamed. She ripped off her own rash guard, leaving her in her bikini top. She didn't hesitate. She wrapped the Lycra fabric around what was left of Buck’s leg, just above the knee. She pulled it tight.
Buck screamed. It was a guttural, animalistic sound that tore his throat apart. His back arched off the metal floor.
"I know! I know, honey, I’m sorry!" Alana was crying now, tears streaming down her dusty face, but her hands were steady. She leaned her entire body weight onto the makeshift tourniquet. "Kekoa, hold his hands! Keep him awake!"
Kekoa grabbed Buck’s face between his hands. "Evan! Look at me! Open your eyes!"
Buck’s eyes fluttered. The world was narrowing down to a pinhole. The bouncing of the truck was rattling his bones. The wind was rushing over the cab, deafening.
"Stay with us, Evan!" Kekoa yelled. "You are a firefighter, right? You are tough! You stay with us! You know the drill, you keep those blue eyes opened!"
Firefighter.
The word floated in Buck’s mind, untethered.
He saw the 118. He saw the loft.
He saw Eddie. Eddie smiling at him over a beer. Eddie clapping him on the shoulder.
I didn't say goodbye, Buck thought, his mind sluggish and thick. I turned my phone off.
"Cold," Buck whispered. His teeth started to chatter. "’m cold."
"Kai! Drive faster!" Alana shrieked, pressing harder on the wound. The blood was soaking through the rash guard, slick and dark. "He is going into shock! We are losing him!"
"I am flooring it!" Kai yelled back from the cab.
Buck looked up at Alana. She looked like an angel, backlit by the harsh Hawaiian sun. But her face was terrified.
"Tell..." Buck choked, blood bubbling on his lips. "Tell Maddie..."
"You tell her yourself!" Alana sobbed. "Don't you quit on me, mainlander! Don't you dare!"
But the darkness was heavy. It was heavier than the ocean. It pressed down on his chest, squeezing the air out.
He stopped fighting. It was easier to just let go. To drift.
The last thing he felt was the truck swerving violently, the sound of a siren wailing in the distance, a familiar sound, a sound of home and then the sun went out.
Los Angeles
Eddie sat up in his bed with a gasp. His heart was beating hard against his ribs like a trapped bird. He was drenched in sweat.
He looked around the dark room. The clock read 4:12
AM.
"Dad?"
Christopher was standing in the doorway, clutching his plushie. "Did you have a bad dream too?"
Eddie swallowed hard, rubbing his chest. There was a phantom pain there, a sharp ache right in the center of his sternum. He felt... panicked. A deep, primal wrongness that settled in his bones.
"Yeah, buddy," Eddie whispered, his voice trembling. "Yeah. I think I did."
He reached for his phone on the nightstand. He didn't know why. He just needed to check.
No messages.
But as he stared at the dark screen, Eddie felt a chill that had nothing to do with the A/C. He felt, with absolute certainty, that something bad had just happened.
"Come here, mijo," Eddie said, lifting the duvet.
Christopher climbed in, snuggling close. Eddie wrapped his arms around his son, holding him tight, staring into the darkness, waiting for a phone call he prayed would never come.