The call is down a narrow mountain road, pocked and riveted from winter rain. A frigid fog is rolling in and the red flashing lights of the truck throb off it like bleeding moonlight. Dana barrels through the brush, impervious to danger.
She questions my directions. "Are you sure you know where we're going?"
"I delivered a baby here not long ago. Turn right where the road forks, by the Great Oak."
"Women having babies at home? Don't they know it's the 21st century?"
"How can anyone forget?"
"I can't believe people still live like this."
Asheville is a strange mixture of retired Exxon execs and independent mountain folk tucked beneath the Blue Ridge Mountains, each group trying to pretend the other doesn't exist. In a single shift, we might respond to a million-dollar mansion or a dilapidated country shack.
Dana turns right then slows as we come to a broken wooden fence with a gate propped open and a sign that reads, "Trespassers WILL be shot. Turn back."
"Great," she says.
"They're more bark than bite," I say, though I keep my eyes and ears wide open.
"I heard there's bootleggers in these mountains."
"It's true. Some of these mountain folk still make their own moonshine, and I've seen the man of the house, Mr. Granger, partake to the point of violence. He has a nasty habit of slapping his wife around when he's had too much to drink." The urge to give him a taste of his own medicine arises and I smother it, shocked at my violent impulse. Hunger definitely has me in its grip.
"You said he was more bark than bite. I wish Santos were here."
"I thought you were 'done with him,'" I say, baffled by how easily modern women shrug off their lovers.
"I am, but he's still a cop. It's nice to have backup when you're driving alone to a violent bootlegger's shack in the middle of the woods. This has Night of the Living Dead written all over it."
I look at her blankly.
"The zombie movie? You've got to pay more attention to culture. For someone so smart, you have absolutely no idea what's going on in the world."
"Zombies are not an issue here, I assure you. And you're not alone. You're with me."
"Really, Anne. I know how strong you think you are, but forgive me if I'd rather have a pissed-off Army Ranger cop by my side."
Through the mist, a modest log cabin appears. The porch is sagging, yet it holds a broad Confederate flag, faded and tattered. Rangy dogs bound down the steps, barking vociferously. Beside the front door, two wooden rifles form an X. A hand-painted sign beneath them reads, "A Man's home is his castle and I am King."
I step out first and shoo the dogs away. In a flash, they vanish. I grab the med box and hand Dana the airway bag, then take the lead as we head to the house. Although I'm ostensibly ageless and impervious to disease, I'm no superhero. My body heals preternaturally fast, but not quick enough to repair a gaping hole in my heart before I bleed out from a bullet wound. Massive trauma can still kill me.
The front door swings open. "Took you long enough," a ropy man in his 30s says.
I give him a nod- "Mr. Granger" -and stamp my old boots against the porch to shake off the dirt before stepping inside. It's time for a new pair. I've worn these far too long, but despite their disparity with my uniform, I just can't let them go. Their soft caramel leather reminds me of when I was a girl running across the moors under a low grey sky, Em by my side, wild as an untamed falcon. Yet no matter how often I oil and resole them, they look outrageously out of date. Although in the Granger home, you'd hardly notice.
Children of various ages dot the room and a cat scurries off. The house has been shut tight against the cold and is permeated with the odors of animals and sweat, urine and dirt. Dana, still unaccustomed to poverty after six months on the job, wrinkles her nose.
"Oh, it's you, thank God." A young woman emerges from the back room cradling a bundle of blankets. Mrs. Granger is visibly pregnant. It seems just yesterday I delivered her last child. "She stopped breathing," she says, throwing the bundle in my arms.
I can smell her. It's the little girl I ushered into life, kicking and screaming like a hellcat. Now she's still, but I can feel her breathing in my arms. Heat burns through the blankets.
"She has a fever," I say. "She's burning up. You mustn't swaddle her so tightly. She needs to cool down."
The mother brushes a strand of wheat-colored hair off her face. "But it's so cold in here."
"Seizures like this aren't unusual in little ones," I say. "They're not like adults. When a baby gets too hot, it's common for her to seize. You must cool her down." I loosen the swaddle. "What have you given her for the fever?"
"Nothing. It all happened so fast. I didn't know what to do."
"How many kids do you have?" Dana asks.
"Six," Mrs. Granger says, bewildered.
"You'd think you'd have this figured out by now."
I give Dana a sharp look. Rudeness will not be tolerated on my truck under any circumstances. "Let's go," I say to Dana, who shoulders all the equipment with a groan.
"Mr. Granger, Mom needs to come with us. Can you handle the kids?" I search his face for signs of intoxication, but tonight he is sober. He's blocking the front door with a group of lean children huddled around him, one clinging to his leg. His face is drawn and hard, creased with worry. His family is all he has and I can tell he doesn't know whether to shout or cry.
His oldest, a lovely girl of 12 with long flaming-red hair and tawny-colored eyes, touches my arm as she peers at her baby sister. I'm startled. People rarely touch me. The girl, Savannah as I recall, looks up at me with a distressed expression.
"She's going to be okay," I say, rocking the babe in my arms. I've unwound the blanket and already the coolness of my body is reviving her. For once, the chill of my skin is a boon. "I promise."
"I know," Savannah says. "I knew you'd come."
Mr. Granger nods and gently pulls his daughter aside. "God bless you, miss. Keep 'em safe."