Refill

Chapter 1-3

As the last member of their unlikely crew, Gabriel Werner was thirty-two years old and had been working as a paramedic for a decade. He had black hair and perfectly blue eyes. His skin was handsomely tanned, if not a bit wrinkled from the years of stress and worry. Being a paramedic hadn’t been his dream, no. He’d wanted to be a doctor, once, but this is where life led him. He’d be lying to himself if he said he didn’t enjoy his work. There was something exciting about it, fulfilling. Once he’d gotten started, he’d kissed the doctor dream away.

Still, he marched up to the bar and joined them for the first round of shots. The first round was always straight liquor; after that, they could each get however fruity a drink they wanted and not have to suffer the mockery. It was friendly mockery, because they all drank fruity cocktails; it was just one of their traditions. Things that friends did. Gabriel didn’t actually mind the taste of alcohol; he just preferred the taste of fruit.

“To a job well done,” April cheered, raising her shot glass.

“Cheers,” the rest said, in unison. They raised their glasses, clinked them together just gentle enough not to spill any liquor, then drank.

Gabriel was the only one whose cup stopped at his lips and went no further. Had they done a job well done? They’d been responders to a home break-in, first thing on their shift, and the victim—a forty-year-old woman with three kids and a dog—had died on the way there. Then, Anthony. He’d been so badly mangled that Gabriel was sure he would have died on the operating table, though he hadn’t let himself realize that belief until that moment, a shot of whiskey to his lips. If not for that mysterious figure, he was sure Anthony would have died in the car alongside his friend.

“You good, man?” Henry asked, slapping his hand into Gabriel’s back.

“I’m just thinking,” he muttered.

“Whiskey’s good for that.” Henry winked, like he was trying to get Gabriel to take the shot.

“What happened out there at that accident today? The one just outside of town?”

April had just ordered her first fruity drink, a cute little cocktail with an umbrella hanging over the rim of the cup. It was a house special. She’d been about to take her first drink, then stopped and set it back down, shaking her head. Her nose scrunched up like she was thinking.

“I know we like to boast that we’re heroes,” she started, “but we get to accidents like that and, most of the time, we’re too late to save everyone. I could still smell the burning rubber, like the accident had just happened. I mean—now, hear me out, this is the weird part. What if we got the call before the accident happened?”

“That’s entirely unlikely,” Sara droned. “Unless both drivers had somehow planned for the exact place and time that they would collide—”

“But who called?” April snapped. “Male caller doesn’t introduce himself. Nobody was even conscious when we got there, so someone must have called before it happened.”

“You’re crazy.” Henry laughed, but his eyes sang a different tune. He looked like he believed her, like he might have even agreed with her. They were all just trying not to think about it.

“Did the woman survive?” Gabriel asked. He didn’t know her name.

“As far as I know,” April informed. “She made it to the hospital, at least. That other male in the fancy car—the one who was dead at the scene. He’s the only one who died.”

“His name was Hector Jacobs,” Sara said. “You really should take the time to learn their names if you want to talk about the dead.”

“Anthony was asking about him,” Gabriel muttered. “Anthony was the redhead on the pavement. Wanted to know if his friend was okay.”

“That’s dark,” Henry sighed. “I got a quick peek at the body. Hector Jacobs was very, very far from okay. At least, he died quickly.”

“Do you think anyone would take the time to tell him?” Gabriel asked. “Anthony, I mean. About his friend.”

April shook her head. “Why would they? They tend to reserve that information for next of kin. We doctor people tend not to be as considerate as the movies make it seem.”

“We are not doctors,” Sara said. She wasn’t even looking at them, anymore. She’d pulled her e-reader out of her purse and had immersed herself in that, instead, with her glasses pushed all the way up to her brow.

“Anyway,” Henry cleared his throat. “If you’re so worried,” he looked at Gabriel, “you should go check up on him. Maybe it’s not normal, but nothing about that accident was normal. Break some rules, I always say.”

“I don’t think there’s any rule that says he can’t see patients.” April rolled her eyes and raised her cocktail up for a fake toast. There came no toast, and she drank it like she’d drink a shot. Thankfully, martini glasses were small.

“I think I’m going to head home,” Gabriel said.

“Whatever, man. See you next fun time.” Henry waved. April and Sara waved, too, though Sara had yet to look up from her book.

As much as Gabriel might have thought to run directly back to the hospital to see Anthony, there was no point. It was late. If Anthony were out of surgery, and if he’d survived it, he’d be asleep. They’d pump him so full of pain medication and sleep aids that there was no other possibility, because sleep was what he needed. That was the best way to get to the body to heal. That sort of trauma tended to take it right out of people, too. It wouldn’t make sense to go now.

Instead, Gabriel went back to his apartment. He drove slowly, as if the single shot would have impaired him so badly, he wouldn’t be able to make the ten-minute drive. But once he arrived, Gabriel took the stairs to his top-floor home as fast as he could, two and three at a time. He was tall, fit; he’d been an athlete in his youth. If he hadn’t had the dreams of a job in medicine, he might have made a better firefighter.

Gabriel’s apartment was sparsely decorated, furnished, and lived in. He was here to eat, sleep, and read his books. He had a television, but the chances of him watching it were slim. It was more of one of those things he had for when company came over. Company always watched television. Gabriel just read his books in his armchair. He usually fell asleep there, too. The living room was on the left, the kitchen and miniature dining room were on the right. One long hallway ran through the length of the apartment; down at the end of the hallway was a bathroom, a closet, and a bedroom.

Gabriel didn’t even bother to change out of his clothes. He barely had the strength to toe off his shoes at the end of his bed. Once he sat down, laid down, he shut down. He never quite realized how exhausted he was until he was finally in bed. It was one of his poorer traits, he’d always been told. He pushed and pushed and pushed until his body refused to push anymore, and that was when he went to bed. Gabriel went right to sleep, and he dreamed of the accident.

He dreamed of that man that he’d seen. He could hear no words and see nothing beyond that man. That man was there, wearing his old clothes, like he was in the wrong time period. Everything had looked hand-stitched and hand-dyed beige, and he’d worn tall, laced boots long out of fashion. The look he’d given Gabriel, equal parts concern and horror, had been enough to chill any man to the bone, and maybe that was why there was this unnatural urge to go and see Anthony. That man had done something—if he’d been real. If he hadn’t been, then Gabriel was crazy, and that explained everything just as well.