Chapter 2 - The Arrival
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The paramedics rushed through the front door moments later, flooding the kitchen with bright lights, heavy boots, and loud, chaotic questions. They placed an oxygen mask over my face and carefully rolled me onto a backboard. Every movement sent a blinding spike of agony through my ribs.
My son refused to let go of my hand. A female police officer tried to gently pull him away, but he clung to my fingers with terrifying strength.
“He stays with me,” I rasped through the plastic mask.
“We have to get you to the ambulance, ma’am,” the paramedic insisted.
Before the officer could intervene again, a massive, towering figure stepped through the front doorway, filling the entire space. My father had arrived. He wore a heavy canvas work jacket over a flannel shirt, his boots tracking mud onto the pristine hardwood. He smelled of diesel, cold harbor wind, and absolute authority.
He took one look at me strapped to the board, and the color completely drained from his face. Then, his eyes found my son.
“Come here, buddy,” my father said, dropping to one knee.
My son finally let go of my hand and threw himself into his grandfather’s arms, burying his face in the heavy canvas jacket. My father picked him up effortlessly, resting his large, calloused hand on the back of the boy’s head.
“Who did this?” a police officer asked, holding a notepad.
“Julian Mercer. Her husband,” my father answered for me, his voice a low, vibrating growl. “He fled out the back. He drives a silver Ford F-150. Plate number starts with D-R-K.”
The officer nodded and spoke rapidly into his radio.
“I’m riding in the ambulance with her,” my father stated, leaving no room for negotiation. “And my grandson is coming with me.”
“Sir, protocol dictates—” the paramedic started.
May you like
My father stepped forward, his sheer physical presence shutting the man down instantly. “I am not asking for permission. My daughter does not leave my sight.”
We rode to Chicago General Hospital in the back of the screaming ambulance. The entire ride, my father kept his hand resting gently on my uninjured shoulder. He didn’t ask why I hadn’t told him. He didn’t demand explanations. He simply stared at the monitors, a dark, violent promise brewing in his eyes. Julian had crossed a line that could not be uncrossed.
