When Dragons Burn

ACT I- The Mountains: Chapter 1 Rayna The city looked tired in my mirrors—half brake lights, half drizzle. I kept both hands on the wheel even though they still shook. I’d washed them twice before leaving the station, scrubbed until the skin between my fingers stung, but the smell of antiseptic clung like it always did. I rolled the window down for air. The sunset caught in the glass towers behind me and turned everything copper for a second before fading out. I told myself not to replay the call. That lasted maybe two minutes. We’d done everything right—airway, lines, drugs, the works—but the kid’s heart just… wouldn’t come back. His mom was standing on the sidewalk in bare feet, holding a towel like it might help. I’d handed the chart to the ER nurse, heard myself say the words I hated: time of death. Then I signed the paperwork, packed the stretcher, and told Tess I needed to drive. She didn’t argue. Traffic thinned after the last interchange. The highway stretched open, dark and empty, and I finally exhaled. My phone buzzed—Tess again. U good? I typed back: Fine. Taking a quick trip. Back Monday. Added a heart so she wouldn’t call. The seatbelt always sat too high on my neck. I tugged it lower and leaned forward until my spine popped. The shift had felt longer than twelve hours, maybe because grief stretches time. When the exit for the state road came up, I took it without thinking. Headlights cut through pine shadows. I turned the radio on for company; static and a weather report answered. “Severe storms overnight,” the announcer said in that calm tone they use when it’s already too late. I switched it off. Silence felt safer. By the time I hit the first real incline, the air smelled wet and sharp, like rain waiting. The SUV’s gas light blinked on, so I pulled into a fuel stop that looked left over from another decade. One pump, diner attached, sign half-burnt out. The teenager inside mopped the floor and looked up like I’d surprised him. I paid cash. “Heading up or back?” he asked. “Up,” I said. “Storm’s coming. You got four-wheel?” “Yeah.” Lie. He shrugged. “Then you’ll be fine.” I bought water and pretzels because I didn’t want to think about dinner. The drive after that felt quieter, trees closing in on both sides until it was just me and the sound of tires over gravel. The road wound higher. My ears popped. Every curve made the headlights catch raindrops like sparks. When I finally reached the lodge, it was full dark. The building was small but looked clean—new paint, six rooms, a porch wrapped in yellow string lights. The woman at the desk smiled, the way people do when they can tell you’ve had a long day. “Just you?” “Yeah. Weekend.” “Storm warning’s running. Radio in every room if the power goes. Tea in the common area—some peppermint blend a guest left behind.” “Thanks,” I said, and meant it. The room smelled like cedar and fresh sheets. I set my bag on the chair, pulled out my old notebook, and sat on the bed. The first words came slow because my hands still trembled a little. I’m taking forty-eight hours. No calls. No patients. No guilt. I paused, drew a line through the last sentence, and wrote: You did everything you could. It looked too much like a lie, but I left it anyway. I unpacked automatically—brush by the sink, socks on the chair, first-aid kit on the dresser out of habit. Washed my hands again. Hot water stung the small cuts on my knuckles. I stared at them a long time, trying to remember which patient had grabbed me hard enough to bruise. There’d been so many lately. I let the water run until the steam fogged the mirror. The shower helped. So did clean clothes—flannel pants, soft T-shirt, hair damp around my face. When I looked at myself afterward, I looked younger but not lighter. I didn’t smile. Didn’t frown either. Just me, almost five feet of tired, trying to remember what quiet sounded like. The common area was empty except for the hum of the refrigerator. I made tea from the peppermint jar and sat with the hiking map someone had left on the table. Tomorrow I’d walk to the lookout. If it rained, I’d read. I’d sleep. No sirens. No blood. No apologies. Just quiet. I could almost imagine what that felt like. My phone buzzed—Tess again. Call me if you need. Tomorrow maybe. Just need quiet. She sent a thumbs-up, then a skull emoji because she can’t help herself. I laughed, first time all day. Back in the room, I propped the window open a few inches and turned on the small radio. The announcer’s voice was still calm. “Thunderstorms moving faster than predicted. High winds and hail possible. Stay where you are if you can.” “I’m staying,” I told the radio. Talking out loud kept the silence from feeling too big. I sipped the tea, mint sharp on my tongue. The rain started light and then came heavy, drumming on the roof hard enough to blur every other sound. I lay down, notebook on the nightstand, lamp off. The dark wasn’t full—it moved with every flash of lightning outside. I watched the curtains breathe in and out with the wind. My body wanted to listen—to wait for the call, the alarm, the next emergency—but there wasn’t one. There was only the hum of the heater and the steady fall of rain. I tried counting breaths the way I tell panic patients to. On four, my shoulders eased a little. On eight, my stomach unclenched. The storm deepened. Thunder rolled low across the ridge like a truck on a far highway. The sound vibrated through the bed frame. I told myself it was just weather, not a warning, and I believed it enough to close my eyes. The last thing I remember before sleep was the smell of peppermint and rain, and the small, stubborn thought that this time, maybe, I could fix something—just by resting.