Go home,” my boss says, glancing up from his tablet where he’s busy adjusting crew hours on the time clock. He has to approve overtime before we can be credited for it, and after last night, he’s got a lot of approving to do.

“The bus is restocked and sanitized,” I say. “I noticed we’re running low on 22G catheters and EKG electrodes. Another night like this one and we’ll be out completely. I put it on the want list, but you may want to order more.”

He nods, not looking up again. “Thanks. Now go home. You’ve been on for eighteen hours. I’ll see you in a couple days.”

At twelve-forty-five this morning, fifteen minutes before my shift was scheduled to end, dispatch called for all available EMS crews to respond to a multiple vehicle accident on Highway 81, not far from Bristol on the southwest side of the county. It was raining to beat the band all night long and we’d already responded to multiple MVA’s on the highway as well as backroads, but this was like nothing I’d ever seen before except in the movies or on the news.

It’s hard to know exactly what happened, but the result looked like a junk yard of big-rigs and cars strewn across all six lanes of I-81. Trucks are fond of traveling in packs at night, and they don’t slow down, no matter how bad the weather. Whatever caused the accident bought all traffic to a stand-still, and then one tractor trailer after another just piled on, crushing any smaller vehicles in their path.

By the time we got there, Highway Patrol had closed the road to everything except emergency vehicles, but it was still almost impossible to know where to begin. My partner and I went vehicle to vehicle, looking for victims, triaging them according to seriousness of injuries. There were at least six EMS agencies on the scene, in addition to Washington County. It was chaos for the first couple hours, then it was just an unending process of ferrying people to the ER in Bristol, then coming back to the scene to collect the less seriously injured.

The rain let up around dawn, just as we hauled the last patient out of the crash scene. It was something to pass through in the early light, like a scene out of an apocalyptic film. It was a miracle there were no fatalities. I’ll credit the rain with that. I saw at least three fuel trucks in the mangle of vehicles at the center of the pile-up, the contents of their tanks, spilled all over the concrete surface of the road. If it hadn’t been pouring all night, at least one of those spills would have caught a spark, creating an inferno of the whole scene.

As we were pulling out, the hazmat teams were pulling in. They were a little late to the party.

This was not how my weekend was supposed to begin. I should have been at home by two, with a full night’s sleep by now. As it stands, I’m exhausted, wearing a damp uniform stained with blood and who knows what else. I’m supposed to meet Dillon for lunch in one hour. Home is forty minutes away.

I dial his number, but it goes to voicemail. I try texting but get no response. If I show up late, he’ll think I’ve blown him off. At this point all I want to do is go home, climb in the shower and scrub this long day off my skin, then collapse into bed and sleep forever.

Shit. Suck it up and just get it over with. I don’t need to be well-dressed to have whatever conversation Dillon wants to lay on me.

The fire station in downtown Abington is a fifteen-minute drive from my EMS station on Lee Highway in Bristol. I’ll be early but that’s better than late, even if I smell like diesel fuel and bodily fluids.

By the time I arrive in Abingdon, the clouds from last night have cleared completely, the sun is high, bright, and hot. People are out and about on the streets shopping, sightseeing, oblivious to the scene of carnage still being cleaned up just a few short miles down the highway.

Approaching the fire station, I see two of the city’s new, gleaming white fire engines parked outside in the sunshine with the garage doors open to the fresh air. In front of them, it looks like a pool party is underway, with eight firefighters stripped to the waist, dipping into deep buckets of soapy water, or pointing hoses at the chrome and shiny paint on the vehicles, as well as at each other.

I park my car on the street and just sit for a moment, watching them play at washing their trucks. They’re having a merry time of it, dowsing one another, throwing sponges, making a wet mess of their work. Dillon is right there in the scrum of it, giving better than he gets. He’s soaked to the skin, his black BDU’s clinging to muscled legs, his bare chest gleaming in the sun.

The city fire and EMS department wasn’t called to the scene down near Bristol last night. Their responsibility is local emergencies, which means they get a lot of calls for residential fires, over-heated tourists, and cats stuck in trees. It’s a good gig if you can get it.

Watching him and his friends, I admire their playfulness as well as the fine display of masculine beauty. I envy the casual freedom to play at work.

Dillon is six years older than I am, but some days he seems so much younger. As far as I know, he’s never had any real responsibility. He lives in a Peter Pan world where he never has to grow up. It occurs to me that his boyish joy with the simplest things—like making a game out of washing a fire truck—is what I find so sexy and compelling about him. I wish some of that joy could rub off on me. As it is, I’m aware I take everything way too seriously.

As exhausted as I am, it’s good to see Dillon again. I missed his smiling face and that sexy as hell body.

“Hey!” I call out to him, crossing the street at a jog. “I’m early. I pulled a double. Didn’t have time to go home and change.”

Dillon looks me over, putting down his hose and sponge. He jogs on over. “You’re really early,” he says, a smile beaming across his sweat glistened, tanned face. “Give me a few minutes to wash-up and change, we’ll head to my place.”

“Don’t bother,” I urge. “I look like shit enough for the both of us. You heard about the crash down on 81 last night?”

He nods. “Sounded awful.”

“It was. I was there all night. Multiple traumas. No fatalities I’m aware of, but it was huge. We did six runs to the ER in Bristol after triaging the scene and stabilizing the worst injuries for three hours before we could even move.”

“You’re just off work now?” he asks in surprise. “Since four yesterday afternoon?”

“Yeah,” I say, smiling awkwardly. “Long damn night. Sorry. But I promised you I’d come, so here I am. Let’s go talk.”

Just then I see a familiar face heading straight toward us; Gil Steele, out of uniform, his phone to his ear, his eyes on Dillon with a grave expression drawing his features.

Dillon turns following my line of sight. As they make eye contact, I feel my gut tighten. That guy walks as tall as John Wayne with the severe confidence of James Bond. He’s several inches taller than I am, has at least thirty pounds of pure muscle on me, and eyes the color of amber flecked with gold and emerald. No wonder Dillon loves him.

Without even thinking, I take a defensive step back as he approaches.

It’s almost as if they have a secret, unheard language passing between them. Dillon’s expression shifts to alert, then deep concern. Something is wrong, and Dillon sees it in Gil’s posture, in the look in his eye.

“What’s happened?” Dillon asks, turning toward Gil. Every muscle in his body suddenly tensing.

“It’s Kimmie,” Gil says, his tone measured and flat. “And the kids. They’re…okay, but there’s trouble.”

“What trouble?”

Dillon isn’t breathing.

“Take a breath,” Gil urges. “Kimmie’s been arrested, along with her boyfriend. There’s a meth lab. Carrie’s on the scene—”

“That motherfucker,” Dillon growls between clenched teeth, his eyes narrowing to slits, his hands balling into fists.

“Haz-Mat is about to be called. Child Protective Services has been notified because the kids were in the house.”

“CPS?” Dillon repeats, his voice strained thin with rage. “What the hell? Gil, what the fuck are you telling me?”

Gil hauls in a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “I’m telling you to get a shirt on and come with me, so you can be there before CPS gets there so you can present yourself as guardian, so those three kids don’t wind up in the very fucked-up foster care system here in Washington County.”

Dillon’s eyes go wide, and his face pales dramatically.

“Me?” he asks, disbelief animating his tone. “Guardian? Are you fucking kidding me?”

He shakes his head and then turns halfway, as if he’s going to walk away. He’s shaking, rage taking hold of him. He turns back to Gil. “Boyfriend? You said Kimmie’s boyfriend? She doesn’t have a fucking boyfriend. She went back to that asshole husband of hers three months ago. Darryl Schmidt. Is that who she’s with now?”

Gil shakes his head. “I don’t know. Carrie didn’t say. I guess she assumed he was her boyfriend.” He takes a step forward toward Dillon, his expression deadly serious. “It doesn’t matter who she was with. What matters is the kids. They need you. Now. Not tomorrow, or an hour from now, but right now. Are you coming?”

Dillon swallows hard, all the bluster seeping away. He blinks, his eyes going dark. It’s then that something emerges I’ve not seen in him before; acceptance. He squares up, takes a breath and begins moving toward the fire station with purpose.

“Let me grab my phone and a shirt,” he calls back. “Two minutes.”

I’m left standing on the concrete drive in front of the fire station with Gil Steele, feeling awkwardly irrelevant. Just as I’m about to back away, leaving before being left, Gil turns to me with an appraising, inquiring expression.

“Are you on your way to work?” he asks, giving my rumpled, soiled uniform a once over.

I shake my head. “Just off. I pulled a double. The accident out on 81 was all-hands-on-deck, all night long.”

He nods. “I heard. Abingdon PD had to cover for the Sheriff’s Department while the state police handled the scene. Every agency in three counties is gonna dock major overtime this week.”

“Yeah,” I reply, lacking anything more substantial to add.

Dillon reappears from inside the fire house, now fully clothed, his hair towel-dried. His eyes meet mine. “Jack, I’m sorry. What I wanted to tell you is really important, but this is important too. Can I—”

“Jack, you should come too,” Gil interrupts. “As far as I know, there’s no EMS call out because there are no injuries, but Dillon could use the back-up, and the uniform might go a long way toward convincing Child Protective Services he’s got the resources to take care of the kids.”

Dillon nods in agreement. “Please come,” he pleads. “I know we’ve got a shit load of stuff to clear between us, but please. I need you.”

He needs me?

“Um, okay.” I say, uncertain what I can do to help, instead certain I’ll be in the way. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” Dillon says without hesitation. “Really sure.”

Gil nods, pulling keys from his pocket. “Dillon, you ride with me.” He turns to me. “Can you follow in your car? I may get called off and I don’t want him stranded.”

“Sure,” I say, finding a measure of relief in that small thing. At least I can make myself scarce if need be.