“Fuck!” I cursed aloud as I looked through her living room window and saw the back of Laurel’s head.

Judging by the sudden end to her screams, and the way she appeared to be lying on the floor, she was probably passed out.

Fucking hell. What if Laurel had a heart problem or something? I needed to get in there, but I couldn’t break down the door and risk injuring her.

“Boomer, stop!” I shouted, as he kept jumping on me, trying to get me to pay attention to him. He was trained to sense my anxiety, to smell my fear. And right now I was out of my mind with worry.

I glanced over my shoulder, to make sure none of the other neighbors had heard my Mustang backfiring or Laurel screaming. Not seeing anything but Boomer, I turned back to the window. Without a second thought, I cocked my arm back and sent a solid jab that shattered the first pane. Shit! She had dual-pane windows.

“Fucking mother fuck.” I spat one curse after another as I punched out the rest of the glass, telling myself it was too late to go through the whole charade of taking off my shirt and wrapping my hand. Though I felt no pain, I saw the bright-red blood on my hand as I reached in to flip the latch on the window.

Sliding it open, I hopped through the window, ignoring the crunch of glass beneath my work boots. My heart raced when I saw Laurel lying listless by the door. With Boomer barking up a storm at the broken window, I unlocked the deadbolt and tried to block out thoughts of all the things I’d seen. The things I’d done. The things I could no longer do.

Taking a deep breath, I tried to focus on the present moment. I was in Laurel’s house, not in some dusty village in the middle of hostile territory.

I’m here. I’m not there. I’m not there.

More deep breaths.

The five senses.

What do I see? I shook my head furiously as the living room scene blinked in and out of focus.

What do I hear? Boomer. Yapping his ass off. I had to hurry up.

Sliding my hand under Laurel’s body, I wrapped one arm around her waist and the other behind her knees.

What do I feel? Laurel. Even as dead weight, she was so fucking light.

I panicked as I realized I didn’t remember standing up. How long had I been standing here? I shook my head as I tried to remember what I was doing.

The five senses. I could see the living room, though my vision was hazy. I could barely hear Boomer over the pounding of my heart.

I squeezed my eyes shut, willing myself to feel Laurel in my arms, instead of the blinding pain in my belly.

What do you feel? Laurel. Her skin is cold. My biceps and shoulders burn from the effort of carrying her. How long had I been standing here?

What do I taste? Salty sweat spilling in runnels over my lips as I worried that I’d probably lost time again.

What do I smell? Laurel. It wasn’t strong enough to be perfume, but she definitely smelled like sweet melon and fresh rain.

I let out a deep sigh as my heart rate slowed just enough for my vision to clear.

Okay. I was back.

Holy shit, that could have gone so bad.

I didn’t have time to worry about whether or not I should be in the presence of other humans. That was a debate that raged inside my mind on a constant loop, day in and day out. Right now, I had to get Laurel to a hospital.

If she was having a panic attack or — God forbid — a heart attack, I could only do so much with my training. At least I could see from the shallow rise and fall of her chest that she was still breathing. But experience told me we were too close to the hospital to justify waiting for an ambulance.

I carried her outside, my lips pressed in a hard line from the effort. I’d carried men at least fifty pounds heavier farther distances. It was thirty or forty yards to my truck, which would have been a cakewalk if Boomer wasn’t trying to get in my way.

He sensed my distress and he was trained to try to stop me from moving in occasions like this. One second he would jump on me, the next he would try to cut me off and herd me in the other direction.

Boomer was my lifeline and the only thing I loved in this whole fucking world. But in this moment, I wished I could tell him that I wasn’t anxious for me. I was scared for her.

I finally reached the truck and carefully slid Laurel’s limp body into the cab. I made sure to lay her down on her side, facing forward, so I could look back periodically to make sure she wasn’t turning blue.

Boomer tried to hop in the driver’s seat to stop me from driving, but I managed to get him into the truck bed. Now, I just had to call the hospital to let them know I was bringing in a possible heart attack or severe panic attack. But when I reached into my jeans pocket to get my phone, I flinched at the pain in my hand. I patted the pocket instead, my heart racing as I realized it wasn’t there.

Fuck! It probably fell out of my back pocket when I climbed in through the window.

Double fuck! I just got blood all over my favorite jeans.

Glancing at my bloody hand, I pulled off my T-shirt and wrapped it around the throbbing slash on my palm. I was glad we were on our way to the hospital.

I had only been to Providence Hospital in Portland one time. Despite my efforts to forget that day, I now thanked God I hadn’t. I didn’t have time to go back and get my phone or attempt to search for an address in the shit-tacular GPS in my truck.

Today, I would have to rely on raw memory. If I didn’t know better, I’d think I was being tested. And I hoped like hell I wasn’t about to fail.