Chapter 20 The Collapse
I wake to agony.
Not the sharp, sudden pain of injury, but the deep, relentless ache of something fundamentally wrong inside my body. Every breath feels like broken glass in my lungs. Every heartbeat sends fresh waves of cramping through my abdomen.
And the blood. There's so much blood.
I try to remember where I am. What happened. The memories come in fragments—the rogue's gaunt face, his surprising gentleness as he carried me, the hiking trail where he left me.
How long ago was that? Minutes? Hours?
The sky above is darker now, full night having fallen while I was unconscious. Stars pepper the blackness, cold and distant and indifferent to my suffering.
I should move. Should try to find help. But my body refuses to cooperate. Every attempt to shift position sends fresh spasms of pain radiating from my core.
The babies. Oh god, the babies.
I press my hands to my stomach, feeling for movement, for any sign of life. But there's nothing. Just the hot, wet evidence of my body failing them.
"I'm sorry," I whisper into the darkness. "I'm so sorry. I tried. I tried to keep you safe."
Tears stream down my face, mixing with the dirt and blood already caked there. This isn't how it was supposed to go. I was supposed to make it to Vancouver. Supposed to find Thomas and build a new life. Supposed to give these babies a chance.
Instead, I'm dying on the side of a hiking trail in the middle of nowhere, taking them with me.
The cold is intensifying, seeping into my bones. I'm shaking now, violent tremors that I can't control. Shock, probably. Blood loss. Hypothermia. Take your pick.
I pull Sarah's thermal scarf tighter around my neck, but it does little to fight off the chill. The thermal blanket Jake gave me is somewhere in my backpack, but the pack is several feet away, and I don't have the strength to reach it.
So I just lie there, staring up at the stars, waiting for the end.
Time loses meaning. Maybe I drift in and out of consciousness. Maybe I'm hallucinating from blood loss. But I could swear I hear voices.
"...think I saw something..."
"...probably just an animal..."
"...no, look, there! Is that a person?"
Footsteps. Running. Getting closer.
"Oh my god, there's someone here! Call 911!"
A face appears above me. Male, maybe mid-thirties, with kind eyes and a hiking headlamp that blinds me momentarily.
"Hey, hey, stay with me," he says urgently. "What's your name? Can you tell me your name?"
I try to answer, but my lips won't form words. Everything feels disconnected, like my mind is floating somewhere above my body.
"She's bleeding. A lot." Another voice, female this time. "David, she needs help now."
David. The name registers dimly. The man trying to save me is named David.
"I'm calling for emergency services." David pulls out a phone, and I watch in detached fascination as his fingers fly across the screen. "Yes, we need immediate help. We're on the Aurora Ridge Trail, about three miles from the north parking area. We found a young woman, early twenties maybe, severe abdominal bleeding, appears to be in shock..."
He keeps talking, but his words fade into white noise. I'm so tired. So cold. Wouldn't it be easier to just close my eyes? To let the darkness take me?
"No, no, don't do that." David's hand is on my face, patting my cheek gently. "Stay awake. Help is coming, but you need to stay with me."
"My babies," I finally manage to whisper. "Please... my babies..."
David's expression changes. Understanding and horror flash across his features in quick succession.
"She's pregnant," he tells someone—probably the 911 operator. "Please, we need that helicopter now. She's pregnant and losing a lot of blood."
The female voice returns, closer now. I turn my head slightly and see a woman kneeling on my other side. She's pulled the thermal blanket from my backpack and is carefully draping it over me.
"What's your name, sweetheart?" she asks gently.
"Sage." My voice sounds strange. Distant. "Sage Mitchell."
"I'm Rachel. That's my husband David. We're going to stay right here with you until help arrives, okay? You're not alone."
Not alone. The words bring fresh tears. Because I am alone. More alone than I've ever been. My pack has cast me out. The father of my children chose another woman. And now the babies themselves are slipping away.
"Can't... can't lose them..." I clutch at Rachel's hand desperately. "Please... have to save them..."
"The doctors will do everything they can," Rachel promises, though I can see the doubt in her eyes. She's seen the blood. She knows how bad this is.
David is still on the phone, giving more details, answering questions. I catch fragments.
"...no, we don't know what happened to her..."
"...looks like she's been attacked, scratches all over..."
"...temperature is dropping fast, she needs to be airlifted..."
More time passes. Could be five minutes, could be fifty. My sense of time is completely warped.
Then I hear it. The distant thrum of helicopter blades cutting through the night air.
"They're here," David says, relief flooding his voice. "Sage, do you hear that? Help is here."
The helicopter lands in a clearing maybe a hundred yards from where I'm lying. The downdraft whips Rachel's hair around her face, sends loose leaves swirling through the air.
Paramedics rush toward us with a stretcher and medical equipment. They move with practiced efficiency, checking my vitals, starting an IV, asking questions I can barely comprehend let alone answer.
"Pregnant... approximately twelve weeks..." one of them is saying. "Significant vaginal bleeding, signs of infection around abdominal wounds, BP is dangerously low..."
They lift me onto the stretcher with surprising gentleness. The movement still sends fresh spikes of pain through my core, drawing a strangled cry from my throat.
"I know it hurts," a female paramedic says, her hand on my shoulder. "But we're going to take care of you. Just hang on."
Rachel appears beside the stretcher, pressing something into my hand. A piece of paper with a phone number written on it.
"Call us when you're better," she says. "Let us know you're okay."
I try to thank her, to tell her how much this random act of kindness means. But they're already loading me into the helicopter, and the words get lost in the roar of the rotors.
The last thing I see before they close the doors is David and Rachel standing on the trail, watching us leave. Two strangers who stopped to help when they didn't have to. Who stayed when they could have walked away.
Sometimes salvation comes from the most unexpected sources.
The helicopter lifts off, and the paramedics descend on me with renewed urgency. Someone is pressing something against my abdomen, trying to staunch the bleeding. Someone else is adjusting the IV, adding medications I can't identify.
"We're losing her pressure," one of them says. "Push another liter of saline."
"Heart rate is dropping. Come on, stay with us..."
Their voices blend together, becoming background noise to the single thought screaming through my mind.
The babies. What about the babies?
I try to ask, but I can't make my mouth work anymore. Can't make any part of my body obey my commands.
The helicopter's engine changes pitch. We're moving faster now, racing against time.
"ETA to Vancouver General is seven minutes," someone announces. "Trauma team is standing by."
Vancouver General. At least I made it to Vancouver, even if not in the way I planned.
The irony would be funny if it weren't so tragic.
A new wave of pain crashes over me, stronger than anything before. I arch off the stretcher, a scream ripping from my throat.
"She's seizing!"
"Get me the—"
Their words cut off as darkness swallows me whole.
This time, I don't fight it. Don't try to cling to consciousness.
Because what's the point? The babies are gone. My pack is gone. Everything I was fighting for is gone.
Maybe it's better this way. Maybe death is a mercy.
The darkness deepens, and I let myself fall.
Somewhere far away, I hear alarms blaring. Voices shouting. The helicopter touching down.
Then nothing.
Just blessed, empty nothing.