“Paramedics!” Margaret screamed, her voice breaking. “Help her!”
As they loaded Emily onto the stretcher, her hand went limp in Margaret’s grip. Her eyes rolled back.
“She’s crashing!” one medic yelled. “We’re losing a pulse! Go, go, go!”
The ambulance doors slammed shut, severing the connection. As the siren wailed—a long, mournful sound that felt less like a rescue and more like a funeral dirge—Margaret stood alone in the rain. She looked down at her hands. They were covered in her daughter’s blood and the mud of the roadside.
She didn’t get back in her truck to follow the ambulance immediately. She stood there for a full minute, staring into the dark woods, feeling something inside her human soul die, replaced by something ancient, cold, and incredibly dangerous.
The St. Jude’s Hospital waiting room was a purgatory of fluorescent lights and the smell of antiseptic. Margaret paced the floor, her boots leaving muddy prints on the linoleum. She hadn’t washed her hands. She wanted to keep the blood there. She needed to remember.
