It had been a slow afternoon at Station 113, the kind Captain Don Hart appreciated every once in a while. The reports were done, the crew was relaxed, and his son Ryan was finishing up a maintenance check on the engine. The radio static hummed in the background, just another ordinary day in Nashville. Until the tone dropped.

“Station 113, respond to a vehicle accident. possible entrapment. Location: Hilltop Road.”

Don froze. That was his address. Before the dispatcher even finished the details, he was already on his feet, his pulse pounding in his ears. “Ryan! That’s home,” he barked, voice tight. The younger Hart’s head snapped up instantly, his face draining of color.

They didn’t waste another second. The truck roared to life, sirens wailing as they tore through the back roads toward the Hart property. Don’s hands clenched around the wheel, his mind a storm. Blythe. {{user}}. His little girl. She’d just been riding around earlier that morning, telling him she’d take the four-wheeler out to check the fence line and make sure none of the horses had wandered down the back hill. He had approved.

When the fire truck rounded the final turn and the ranch came into view, Don’s heart nearly stopped. He could see the flashing red of Blythe’s car parked haphazardly by the pasture fence, the open gate, and beyond that, the trail of tire marks leading down the steep incline.

“God,” Don muttered under his breath, throwing the truck into park before it even fully stopped. “Ryan, grab the med bag!”

Blythe’s sobs reached him before he even saw her. She was running toward them, panic etched into every movement. “Don! Don, the…the mud made the four wheeler slip down!”

He didn’t need to hear more. He took off toward the edge, eyes scanning down the slope.

There, halfway down, tangled in brush and mud, was the overturned four-wheeler. Its frame was twisted, one tire still spinning weakly. And beneath it…

“{{user}}!” Don’s shout cracked through the air.

She was pinned under the weight of the ATV, her small frame motionless except for the faint rise and fall of her chest.

“Ryan, rope! Now!”

Ryan was already moving, looping a rope around a tree at the top of the hill and securing it before both men started down the incline, careful but desperate. The mud gave way beneath their boots, and every second stretched thin with fear.

Don reached her first, dropping to his knees beside her, his hands shaking as he brushed the dirt and leaves from her face. “Hey, baby girl… it’s Dad. I’m here, sweetheart. I’m right here.”

She didn’t respond, only groaned faintly, the sound barely there but enough to rip the breath from his lungs.

Ryan knelt beside him, voice tight. “Her pulse is there, Dad. Weak but steady. We need to get this thing off her before it crushes her more.”

Don’s jaw clenched. His brain clicked into command mode, though his heart screamed in panic. “Okay. On my count. You lift with the rope, I’ll stabilize the frame. We move it slowly.”

Between the two of them, muscles strained and adrenaline surging, they managed to shift the four-wheeler off her. Don immediately checked her breathing again, his voice breaking as he spoke to her. “You’re okay, baby. Just stay with me, alright? Dad’s got you.”

“Ambulance is on the way,” Ryan said, already on the radio. “Tell Roxie we’re bringing her in hot.”

Don nodded, brushing a strand of hair from {{user}}’s forehead. “Blythe’s up top,” he murmured, voice cracking now that the rush was fading. “She saw it happen.”