Chapter Text
If Tim Bradford had to pick a worst month of the year, it would be September.
It’s the month the entire city officially gets sick of the heat. By mid-September, the endless sun starts feeling less like a coastal paradise and more like a pressure cooker, dragging out tempers, driving up violent crime rates, and weakening Tim’s already limited patience. It’s the month school buses and anxious parents flood the morning commute, turning the dense LA traffic into a bumper-to-bumper nightmare. And to top it off, September offers nothing interesting to look forward to—just weeks of irascible locals, wildfire warnings, and hot asphalt.
The fact that it’s also the month his wife packed her things and disappeared in the middle of the night with their savings two years ago probably doesn’t help matters, either.
Today is proving to be exceptionally miserable, the heat wave hovering over southern California having turned the shop into an oven on wheels. Even with the windows cracked, a thin sheen of sweat clings to the back of Tim’s neck and glues his white undershirt to his torso. He’d actually caved early this morning and let West crank the air conditioning—a luxury Tim normally reserves for after lunch—but even the blast of cold isn't doing much against the unforgiving sunlight beating through the windshield.
By two-o’clock, the heat and monotonous chain of low-level calls are causing the radio chatter to run into one long, hazy stream in his head.
Then, an instinct carved over a decade on the job kicks in, snapping him out of the fog the second their callsign comes through the speaker.
“7-Adam-19, respond to a 911 call at 5415 San Vicente Boulevard, unit 1. Suspected narcotics overdose, male caller reporting multiple unresponsive individuals.”
Jackson reaches out, snagging the shop radio off its mount. Eleven months into his rookie year, Tim doesn’t need to give instruction anymore—West handles the radio like second nature. “7-Adam-19, show us responding,” He replies into the mic, his thumb releasing the button before hanging it back up.
Tim doesn't say a word, just hits the lights and sirens, the engine roaring as he makes a sharp right turn at the next intersection, the heat outside suddenly forgotten as muscle memory takes over.
They arrive at the complex three minutes later, tires screeching to a halt. It’s a run-down, two-story building with peeling paint and overgrown grass, the kind of place Tim never paid attention to until Isabel went missing. Now, whenever they’re in a sketchier part of town, his eyes instinctively sweep the sidewalks, half-expecting to spot her in the shadows.
Right now, the sidewalk is a zoo. A panicked, strung-out-looking guy in a stained tank top runs out the front door of the ground floor apartment, hyperventilating and waving his arms toward their shop as they pull up.
Before Tim even cuts the engine, the wail of another siren echoes down San Vicente. Lopez’s shop pulls in right behind them, Officer Chen leaning out passenger side to spot the address.
Tim unbuckles, stepping out into the heat. “West, stay sharp. Keep an eye on the guy on the curb, get his statement if he can breathe long enough to talk. Lopez, Chen, on me.”
“What do we got?” Angela asks, running up beside him, hand resting habitually near her firearm as Chen follows close behind.
“Caller reported multiple unresponsives,” Tim says, voice dropping into his authoritative tone. “Could be a bad batch, could be fentanyl. Looks like a party. Watch what you touch.”
Tim crosses the yard in long strides, the smell hitting him before they even reach the building—a nauseating mix of stale garbage, sweat, alcohol, and the unmistakable, bitter chemical stench of illegal dope.
“LAPD! We’re coming in!” Tim shouts through the cracked door.
Silence from inside. Not even a groan.
Tim doesn’t waste another second, kicking the door open with the toe of his boot. It hits the wall with a sharp crack. Tim raises his gun, scanning the room.
“LAPD! Hands where I can see ‘em!”
The room is a disaster, a few bystanders hovering around the scene. Tim’s eyes fall to the living room floor. Two bodies are sprawled near the tattered sofa. One is a man, lying unnaturally still on his back. The other is a woman curled up on her side, dirty blonde hair obscuring her face, her chest barely moving.
Tim is across the room in seconds. As he drops to his knees beside the woman, her hair shifts—and his breathing stops dead in his throat.
It’s Isabel.
Her skin is gray, sweat running down her forehead, and a thin trace of white foam rests at the corner of her lips.
“Isabel,” Tim breathes, the word torn out of him like a gasp. His hand snaps to her neck, his fingers searching desperately against her cool skin. “Isabel, hey—look at me!”
Behind him, Angela registers the sudden break in his voice. She steps into the apartment, instantly recognizing the panic in his posture. "Tim? What is it?"
She looks down, her eyes widening as she sees who he’s bent over. The instinct to protect her best friend kicks in immediately. Angela turns to the bystanders cowering near the hall, her voice booming. “LAPD! Everyone take a step back! Clear the room, now!”
“I've got a pulse, but she's barely breathing!” Tim shouts, his voice raw, cracking in a way it never has on the job as he fights tears. He rolls Isabel off her side and onto her back. “She's choking—Isabel! Come on, stay with me!”
A few feet away, Lucy drops to her knees beside the male victim, pressing two fingers against his carotid artery. "No pulse on male victim," Lucy calls out sharply, her hands moving instinctively to start chest compressions. “He's cold. Might’ve aspirated his own vomit!”
“I need—someone get me Narcan!” Tim yells, his hands shaking so violently he can barely fumble with the pouch on his tactical vest.
“I'm on it!” Angela snaps, already pulling the nasal spray from her own kit. She rips the plastic packaging and shoves it into Tim's hand.
Snatching it from her, he cradles Isabel’s cheek and administers the single dose through her nostril.
“Come on, baby,” Tim whispers, leaning over her, his thumb wiping the foam from her lip as his heart hammers against his ribs. “Breathe. Come on, Isabel, breathe!”
For a few agonizing seconds, nothing happens.
Then, Isabel’s body violently convulses. She gasps, a ragged noise tearing from her throat as her chest heaves. Her eyes flutter open—dazed, bloodshot, and unfocused—looking right through him.
Sirens wail outside, growing deafeningly loud, and then two EMTs burst into the apartment with their stretcher and heavy medical bags.
“Overdose, female administered one dose of Narcan, respiratory distress!” Angela calls out to the lead paramedic, taking control of the room, knowing that Tim isn’t thinking like a cop right now. “Conscious and breathing. Male victim down, not conscious, not breathing. Couldn’t find a pulse, started CPR.”
The paramedics move in, loading Isabel onto the gurney within seconds, hooking an oxygen mask over her nose and mouth. The PIC then turns to the male victim, placing a hand on Lucy’s shoulder to get her to stop compressions. After about five seconds, she turns to her partner, lifting her radio. “Control, we need coroners at 5415 San Vicente, we have a DOA.”
Tim stands up, completely oblivious to the rest of the room. As the paramedics wheel Isabel out the door toward the rig, Tim follows hot on their heels, not leaving her side for a second. They load her into the ambulance, the second paramedic running around to the driver’s seat as the PIC moves to shut the doors. Tim tries to climb in after her, and she holds her arms out in protest.
“Sir, you can’t be in here—” she tells him.
“She’s my wife!” Tim snaps, his hands shaking as he grips the bottom of the gurney. His voice leaves no room for argument. “I’m not leaving her.”
The paramedic trades a quick glance with her partner at the head of the rig, then relents with a tight nod. “Keep clear of our workspace. Hold her hand, don’t touch anything unless I tell you to.”
Isabel lies on the gurney, her breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. Her eyes, wide with confusion, dart around the confined space before finding Tim’s face. She pulls the mask from her face. “Tim…?” she whispers, her voice barely a thread.
“I’m right here,” Tim tells her, taking her trembling hand in both of his. “You’re okay. We’re in the ambulance. Just breathe.”
Without warning, Isabel’s back arches off the mattress. A sharp, guttural cry tears from her throat, her grip on Tim’s hand tightening with crushing strength.
“What’s happening? What’s wrong with her?!” Tim panics, his head snapping toward the lead paramedic, who immediately presses her hands against Isabel’s lower abdomen, finding it rock-hard. She quickly pulls back the blanket to check under Isabel’s sundress, her eyes widening as her clinical composure shifts into shock.
“We’ve got active contractions—she’s in full labor!” she calls out sharply. She pounds twice on the partition separating them from the driver. “Pull over now!”
“We’re only a minute out from Cedars!” the driver shouts back.
“We don’t have a minute, this baby is coming right now!” The PIC maintains.
The ambulance veers sharply to the right, tires grinding against the pavement as it slams into park.
“What the hell are you talking about? What’s happening?” Isabel cries out, her voice rising in panic as another sharp spasm hits her. “Tim—what’s going on?!”
“I don't—I don't know,” Tim stammers, completely out of his depth. He leans over her, brushing sweaty hair off of her forehead, his eyes wild with a fear he hasn’t felt in years. “Isabel, look at me. Hey!”
“Listen to my voice, Isabel!” the paramedic orders, positioning herself at the foot of the gurney while her partner, who has climbed through the now-open door, preps sterile towels and a suction bulb. “You are having a baby, and it’s coming right now. I need you to take a deep breath and push on my count!”
“Push? No, I can’t—I didn’t—” Isabel chokes out, wide eyes flooding with tears, but another intense contraction gives her no choice.
“Squeeze my hand!” Tim urges, pressing his palm flat against hers as she screams, her knuckles turning white. “Come on, baby, you can do this! Push!”
Tim’s world narrows to the tiny space inside the rig, his heart hammering against his ribs with every passing second. Within two agonizing minutes of guided breathing and hard pushes, the baby emerges into the paramedic’s waiting hands.
The silence that fills the back of the ambulance has never seemed louder.
Tim’s chest seizes. The infant—a girl, he observes—is tiny, pale with a bluish tint, and completely limp. No cry comes.
“She’s not breathing!” Tim yells, his pulse ringing in his ears. “Why isn’t she breathing?!”
“Get me the BVM—find the infant mask! Clear the airway!” the PIC commands calmly, despite the speed of her movements. She grabs a dry towel, vigorously rubbing the newborn’s back to stimulate her nervous system while her partner uses the rubber bulb to suction the infant’s mouth and nose. The PIC then stimulates the soles of the baby’s tiny feet. “Come on, little one. Take a breath.”
Tim holds his own breath, his hand still locked with Isabel’s as they both stare in terror.
Flick. Rub. Silence. Flick. Rub. Silence.
A tiny, wet gasp echoes in the rig, followed immediately by a sharp, shrill cry that fills the small space. Relief floods through Tim so hard he nearly slips off the bench.
The paramedic quickly wraps the crying infant in a sterile blanket, holding a small oxygen tube near the baby’s face as her skin begins to turn a healthy pink. Her partner, seeing that her job is done, jumps back out of the rig and slams the door. Five seconds later, she’s back in the driver’s seat.
“Drive! Go, go, go!” the PIC yells, hitting the partition.
The siren wails to life again as the ambulance jerks back onto the road. “Forty seconds out!” the driver shouts from the front.
Tim sinks back into his seat beside Isabel, still gripping her hand. She weeps quietly from exhaustion and shock, staring in disbelief at the small bundle cradled in the paramedic’s arms.
The ambulance screeches to a halt outside the hospital doors. The rear doors fly open, revealing a trauma physician and two nurses waiting with a heated transport incubator.
The PIC rattles off the handoff report at top speed as they roll out the gurney: “Female, 30s, opioid overdose, Narcan administered in the field, precipitous delivery in transit! Fetal distress on scene. Infant required immediate tactile stimulation and suctioning—respirations stable now, looks late-stage premature, approximately 34 weeks!”
“Copy that, let's move!” the doctor orders, taking charge of the gurney as the team sprints into the building. “Get the infant straight up to the NICU team, prep Bay 2 for the mother!”
The emergency room doors slide shut, leaving Tim staring blankly in shock.
His brain is flying a thousand miles-a-minute, and he thinks he should sit down soon.
His entire body jolts as the vibration against his thigh breaks through the fog.
Tim reaches down with stiff fingers, pulling his phone from his front pocket. The screen glows dim against the sunlight, displaying the caller ID: LOPEZ.
He stares at the name, the generic ringtone muffled in his ears. Angela is probably still back at the scene, holding down the perimeter, doing the job he should be doing right now.
His thumb slides across the screen, bringing the phone up to his ear.
“Tim?” Angela’s voice comes through immediately, background chatter filtering through the speaker. “Are you at the hospital? How is she doing? Are you okay?”
Tim’s mouth opens, but his throat feels clamped shut. He stares straight ahead at the glass windows, the silence stretching between them.
“Tim?” Angela’s tone shifts, the professional veil dropping, leaving only acute concern. “Did something happen?”
He takes a shallow breath, but still no words come out.
“Hey, you’re freaking me out,” she pushes, her voice rising. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”
Tim swallows hard, his grip tightening on the phone until his knuckles turn white.
“She just—” Tim starts, his voice raw, catching on the words. He grips the back of his neck with his free hand, eyes darting back to the double doors. “There’s a baby, Angela.”
A dead quiet falls over the line.
“What?” Angela stutters, her voice dropping an octave. “Tim, what are you talking about?”
Tim closes his eyes, his breath hitching in his chest.
“She’s–, I—” Tim cuts himself off. He pulls the phone from his ear, staring at the screen, before pressing it back to his ear. “She had a baby.”
“She what?” Angela snaps, completely derailed. “Tim, what do you mean she had a baby? Is it—were you—?”
“No,” Tim chokes out. His voice cracks down the middle—a sound Angela has never heard from him in the ten years she’s known him. “No. She disappeared two years ago, Ang. Do the math.”
A heavy, horrified pause stretches between them.
“Oh, God,” Angela breathes softly. “Tim… what are you going to do?”
Tim looks past his reflection in the glass doors, staring into the empty hospital corridor.
“I have no idea.”
—