LITMIR.BIZ

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been deathly allergic to bees since childhood and had brushed with the life-threatening condition more than once.

      This could not be happening.

      Not today.

      He needed to talk to his son before he was no longer able. Needed help. Needed it damn soon. “Ian!” he choked out, coughing through a tightening throat. Damn. His tongue had already begun to swell, as had his windpipe.

      Ian pivoted toward him and froze, instantly on alert by the urgency of his dad’s tone.

      Drew fumbled in his cargo pocket for the EpiPen he never left home without … then stilled. Empty.

      No EpiPen? He numbed. Dread spread through him as fast as the bee venom.

      He always carried his EpiPen.

      Panic pushed through his veins and squeezed him; he couldn’t breathe. Shaking, he tore through his other pockets, partially ripping one flap off his hiking shorts. Nothing. He shrugged off his backpack then pawed through it, clumsy and slow, craving oxygen.

       Nothing.

      Stars burst in his vision as he watched his son run and stumble toward him, the carefully chosen orange wildflowers falling forgotten from the boy’s little hand. “Daddy! Daddy! What’s wrong?”

      He wanted to reassure his son.

      Wanted to make it all okay.

      But couldn’t.

      Gasping, choking, Drew sat, then slid back on the rock. He tried to keep the stung arm angled downward, to slow the venom’s attack on his body. The skin on his face and hands seemed stretched to its limit, fire-hot and apt to split open if he moved or spoke. When Ian’s terrified and confused face appeared above him, Drew didn’t have the option of many words. He reminded Ian of the most important ones. “Deer … Track.”

      He labored for air, his vision blackening. The last thing he heard was Ian yelling for him to wake up.

       Eleven-eleven.

       Deer Track Trailhead.

      Ian repeated the words in his head as he plowed through his daddy’s belongings looking for the medicine shot that was supposed to save his life if he ever got stung by a bee. But it wasn’t there. It wasn’t there! His heart pounded so hard, he could hear it in his head. His throat had gone dry and sore from his heavy breathing.

      The shot was nowhere.

      Daddy had always told him, use the shot. But how could he use it if he couldn’t find it?

      “Mommy!” he wailed in panic and frustration, fists clenched as he glanced up at the fat white cloud.

      No answer.

      Why couldn’t she say something?

      Wasn’t she supposed to be watching out for them?

      He felt so alone. So scared. Tears squeezed out of his eyes. The breeze tilted the orange flowers in the field to one side, then the other. They didn’t look so pretty anymore.

       Eleven-eleven.

       Deer Track Trailhead.

      Unsure what to do without the shot, he choked out a sob and shook his dad by the shoulders as hard as he could. It didn’t wake him up, but Daddy’s cell phone fell out of his shirt pocket just as Ian was about to lapse into full-on hysteria. The cell phone felt like a sign from Mommy.

      Help!

      He could get help for Daddy. That’s what Mommy was trying to tell him. Snatching up the phone, he pressed the three important numbers he’d had memorized since the police officer came to talk to his kindergarten class.

      Nine.

      One.

      One.

       Please, God, Ian prayed, as the phone rang. Don’t take my daddy to heaven, too.

      Lexy sat in her glass-walled office overlooking the bustling Troublesome Gulch emergency communications center she managed. The distinctive warble of the incoming 9-1-1 lines carried through the secured room, as did the regular phone sounds, the tones going out to the fire stations and the capable murmurs of the dispatchers she supervised deftly handling calls, emergency and otherwise.

      Familiarity.

      Her world.

      But Lexy’s mind wasn’t on her work. Her mood was thoughtful, perhaps even melancholy, which really wasn’t her style. But she couldn’t seem to shake it and she couldn’t figure out why she felt like this. She tossed her pencil aside and studied the three framed wedding photos that adorned the upper left corner of the desk. Her best friends in the world.

      Brody and Faith.

      Erin and Nate.

      Cagney and Jonas.

      Survivors from the horrible prom-night tragedy twelve years ago, all of them. Happy. Glowing. Complete. And with their soul mates, at long last, which was all she’d wanted for them since prom night almost thirteen years ago. She’d dedicated her life to helping her friends forgive themselves and move on. That, and to serving her community through her career in emergency services. Both goals served as a sort of. retribution, and only after reaching them could she even think about finding a way to forgive herself for causing the whole thing in the first place—if one existed.

      She’d worked in the comm center for eleven years now, and loved it. Giving back to the community kept her sane. And, although it had taken a decade, all her friends had worked through their own pain, come to terms with the past, fully recovered. Brody and Faith had a beautiful baby girl, Mickie, and a teenage foster son, Jason. Erin and Nate had been blessed with little Nate Jr. Cagney and Jonas were still in that newlywed state and probably would be for a while. But they’d more than earned it.

      Lexy had done all that she’d set out to do. Mission accomplished.

      So … what now?

      She’d always imagined she’d feel a sense of serenity, of closure, of having set things right once all the pieces fell into place. But instead she felt restless and afloat, and she had no clue why or what to do about it. Clearly, she’d been so focused on her original goals, she’d never visualized the what next? part. Now, here she was, smack in the middle of what next? and utterly clueless. Okay, so she’d increased her sessions with the rehabilitation therapist to four times a week—as her sore muscles reminded her—and she felt physically stronger. Emotionally, though, not so much.

      She needed something new to strive for.

      Like … a hobby? Lame.

      A tentative knock on the open door startled Lexy from her contemplative brooding. She shot a glance toward the sound, then exhaled noisily. “Oh, you scared me.”

      “Sorry.” Genean, one of the younger dispatchers, scrunched her nose. “I didn’t mean to sneak up.”

      Lexy easily maneuvered her wheelchair to face her employee, then smiled up at her. “No problem. I was just daydreaming, which, admittedly, isn’t listed anywhere in my job description,” she added, in a just-between-us-girls tone.

      Genean laughed. “Happens to the best of us.”

      “True enough.” Lexy rested her hands in her lap. “What can I do for you, Genean?”

      The trendy young woman aimed a thumb toward the central area of the secured room. “Can you sit the board for me for half an hour? I forgot my lunch on the kitchen counter this morning, and I’m sure it’s been devoured by my ill-behaved dog by this point.” She shrugged. “I’ve been trying to hold out until I got off shift, but my tummy’s protesting loudly.”

      “Of course.” Lexy glanced at the large, wallmounted LED clock and saw it was already after eleven. Genean’s shift had started at

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