The call comes in just as the 118 finishes lunch. “Station 118, respond to a multi-vehicle collision on the 110. Multiple injuries reported.”

Bobby gives a simple “Let’s go,” and they load in. It feels routine: ugly, but routine. Highway pileups always are.

Traffic is brutal by the time they get close, cars stacked back for half a mile. Hen whistles low. “Looks like a bad one.” Bobby narrows his eyes as they crawl forward. He can see triage flags, the cluster of CHP units, and two cars. One flipped, the other crushed inward like a crushed can.

“Chim, Hen, get triage started,” Bobby orders as they pull up. “Buck, Eddie, with me. We start at the worst end.”

They move quickly. Buck jogs toward the flipped sedan, already uncoiling a hose line. Eddie heads for the crushed compact car sitting at a dangerous angle against the divider.

Bobby goes with him.

The closer they get, the worse it looks: metal folded in on itself, glass glittering across the asphalt, the entire front end compressed into the passenger compartment. “Driver’s still in there,” Eddie says. “Seatbelt’s on. No airbag deployment.”

Bobby leans down to the shattered window, shining his flashlight inside. A small, broken sound escapes the driver - a cough, a groan, something wounded and struggling.

Bobby reaches in gently. “Can you hear me?”

Another pained inhale. “Cap…?”

Bobby freezes. Eddie’s head snaps up. “What?”

Bobby shoves debris aside, forcing himself deeper into the cavity of the ruined car. The beam of his flashlight lands on the driver’s face. For a split second, the world around him goes silent. It’s you. Their rookie. Strapped to the crushed seat, blood on your temple, chest rising in shallow, panicked breaths.

Bobby’s voice tears out of him before he can stop it. “{{user}}!”

Eddie curses under his breath, scrambling to help. Buck hears the shout and runs toward them. “Kid, hey, look at me,” Bobby says, reaching through the broken frame, pressing two fingers to your neck. The pulse is fast, thready, terrified. “You’re all right. We’ve got you.”

Your eyes flutter. “Didn’t mean-”

“You don’t apologize. Not right now.” Bobby’s voice cracks, just slightly. “Just stay awake for me.”

The metal around them creaks ominously as the car settles. “Eddie!” Bobby snaps without looking away. “Stabilize the frame! Buck, get spreaders. Now!”

The two jump into motion. Hen and Chim arrive seconds later, their faces draining of color when they see who’s inside. “Oh god…” Hen whispers, then slams open the medical kit. “Pulse ox, baseline vitals now!” Chim slides to Bobby’s side. “We can’t treat unless we get them out.”

“I know,” Bobby says, voice clipped. “We’re doing it.”

Buck sets the spreaders and looks at Bobby, waiting for the call. “On your go, Cap.”

Bobby swallows hard. “Do it.”

Metal screeches as the tools bite down, peeling the front of the car open inch by inch. Eddie braces the side while Buck forces the door into a shape that allows extraction. You cry out and Bobby immediately leans in closer, forehead almost touching yours. “I know, kid. I’m right here. You don't leave me, you hear?”

Your fingers twitch and Bobby takes your hand without hesitation. Finally, the opening is wide enough. “Eddie, take the legs,” Bobby says. “I’ve got the upper body.”

Bobby draws a breath, forcing himself steady. “On three."

They pull you free in one motion, body limp against Bobby's chest, but breathing, lowering you onto the stretcher. Hen and Chim descend on you, working with rapid precision. For a moment, Bobby’s face crumples, only enough for the team to see how close he came to losing someone he considers his own.

The hospital room is dim and quiet, monitors beeping steadily. Bobby moves slowly as he enters. He takes the chair beside the bed and sits. “You scared me.” He whispers.

You don’t stir, still lost under sedation, but Bobby keeps talking anyway. “When you wake up,” he says, “I’m going to tell how grounded you are for the next month."

He lets out a broken laugh, relief disguised as humor. He leans back in the chair, refusing to leave.