Chapter 3 - The Little Girl Behind the Kitchen Door
By one in the morning, the storm had turned Carter’s Highway Diner into an island.
Floodwater covered the parking lot.
Miller Creek had jumped its banks.
The highway disappeared beneath muddy water in both directions, and the bridge toward Kingsport had been closed after a section of guardrail collapsed.
No ambulance could reach them.
No one could leave.
And Danny Brooks needed insulin.
Emily stood behind the counter reading the label on his glucose meter while Pete hovered beside her.
“Four hundred eighty-two,” she said.
Pete’s face hardened.
“That’s bad.”
“How bad?”
“Bad enough we need medical advice.”
Michael stood across from them.
“Can we call somebody?”
Emily checked her phone.
No service.
Several bikers tried theirs.
Nothing.
Landline?
Dead with the power.
Then Grace spoke from the booth.
“Mommy, what about Grandpa’s radio?”
Emily turned.
The old CB radio.
Walter had kept it under the office desk for communicating with truckers during snowstorms.
She had almost thrown it away.
Emily ran to the office.
The radio was there beneath a stack of receipts.
Battery-powered.
She carried it out.
Michael helped connect the portable antenna near the window.
Static.
Emily turned the dial.
“Anyone monitoring channel nineteen, this is Carter’s Highway Diner in Redwood Valley. Medical emergency. Do you copy?”
Nothing.
She repeated it.
Static.
Again.
A voice answered.
“Carter’s Diner, this is Silver Fox. Say again?”
Emily nearly cried.
She grabbed the microphone.
“We have an injured male, approximately twenty-six, type-one diabetic, missed insulin, glucose four-eighty-two, significant arm wound, possible shock. Roads are flooded.”
The trucker on the other end went quiet.
Then:
“Hold tight. I’m near county line. I can relay to dispatch.”
“Please.”
“Name?”
“Emily Carter.”
Another voice cut in.
“Carter’s Diner? Walter Carter’s place?”
Emily froze.
“Yes.”
“Hell, ma’am, your old man fed me free for three days in ’08 when my rig transmission died.”
Emily closed her eyes.
Of course he had.
“What’s your name?”
“Ray Dobbins.”
“Ray, I need help.”
“You got it.”
Within ten minutes, an emergency dispatcher came through the radio via relay.
Emily explained Danny’s condition.
The dispatcher connected them indirectly to Dr. Lena Morales at Kingsport Regional Hospital.
The connection was terrible.
Every sentence came through broken by static.
But it was enough.
Dr. Morales asked questions.
Danny answered where he could.
How much insulin did he normally use?
When had he eaten?
Was he vomiting?
Was his breathing deep or rapid?
Did his breath smell fruity?
Emily checked.
Slightly.
Michael's face became grim.
Dr. Morales explained what Emily already feared.
Possible diabetic ketoacidosis.
Dangerous.
Potentially deadly.
Danny needed insulin, fluids, monitoring, and hospital care.
“We have no insulin,” Emily said.
The doctor paused.
“Is there anybody in the building who uses insulin?”
Emily looked around.
Thirty-nine men shook their heads.
Grace suddenly said, “Mrs. Jenkins does.”
Emily turned.
“What?”
“The lady with the cat.”
Mrs. Jenkins.
Eleanor Jenkins lived in the house behind the gas station less than half a mile away.
Seventy-three years old.
Diabetic.
Emily’s heart jumped.
But the floodwater outside had made half a mile dangerous.
“No,” she whispered.
Michael heard.
“You know someone?”
Emily explained.
Michael stood immediately.
“I’ll go.”
“No.”
“Emily.”
“You almost drowned twenty minutes ago.”
“Then I know what not to do.”
“The water is higher.”
Danny groaned.
Michael glanced at him.
“We don’t have another option.”
Grace slipped out of the booth.
“Mommy?”
Emily crouched.
“What, sweetheart?”
“Mrs. Jenkins has a red emergency box.”
“What?”
“She showed me when we brought cookies. She said if she got sick I should tell a grown-up the red medicine box is in her refrigerator.”
Emily stared.
Her daughter remembered everything.
Michael asked, “Can we reach the house through higher ground?”
Emily thought.
Behind the diner was an old service trail leading uphill toward the abandoned feed store. From there, it crossed behind the gas station.
Longer route.
Less floodwater.
Still dangerous.
“I know a way.”
Michael immediately shook his head.
“You’re not going.”
Emily laughed once.
“You don’t get to tell me that.”
“You have Grace.”
“And I know the trail.”
“Draw me a map.”
“In this weather you’ll miss the turn and end up in Miller Creek.”
“Then send somebody else with me.”
“No one knows it.”
Michael stepped closer.
“You opened your door. You treated Danny. You got medical help. You’ve done enough.”
Emily looked at him.
“You said he’s your brother.”
“He is.”
“Well, he’s bleeding on my counter.”
Michael stared.
Emily grabbed her raincoat.
“So right now he’s my problem too.”
Grace ran forward.
“No!”
Emily stopped.
Her daughter wrapped both arms around her.
“You can’t go outside.”
Emily knelt.
“Sweetheart—”
“The water took the motorcycles.”
Emily held her tightly.
“I’m not going near the parking lot.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
Michael watched mother and daughter.
Then he crouched beside Grace, though still keeping respectful distance.
“I’ll bring your mom back.”
Grace stared at him suspiciously.
“You promise?”
Michael swallowed.
“Yes.”
“You said bad choices don’t make you bad every minute.”
Michael blinked.
“That’s right.”
“If you lose my mommy, that’s a really bad choice.”
A biker near the counter turned away to hide his expression.
Michael nodded solemnly.
“Understood.”
Emily found herself smiling despite everything.
Ten minutes later, she and Michael left through the rear door.
They wore rain gear borrowed from storage.
Rope connected them.
Michael carried a flashlight and waterproof bag.
Emily led.
The service trail climbed sharply behind the diner.
Rain hit sideways.
Branches whipped across their faces.
Twice Emily slipped.
Twice Michael caught her without comment.
They reached higher ground.
Below them, the highway was a brown river.
“My God,” Michael muttered.
Emily looked back toward the glowing emergency lights of her diner.
Grace was there.
So were thirty-eight bikers.
And one man who might not survive until sunrise.
They continued.
At the abandoned feed store, wind tore part of the roof loose.
Metal sailed across the road.
Michael shoved Emily behind a concrete wall a second before it struck.
The sheet crashed where she had been standing.
Emily stared at him.
“You okay?”
She nodded.
He checked her face anyway.
“You’re bleeding.”
A small cut marked her cheek.
“I’m fine.”
They moved again.
When they reached Mrs. Jenkins’s house, they found the front door open.
Emily’s stomach dropped.
“Eleanor!”
No answer.
They entered.
The power was out.
“Mrs. Jenkins?”
A faint voice came from the kitchen.
“Emily?”
They found Eleanor sitting on the floor beside the refrigerator.
She had fallen while trying to move supplies away from a leaking window.
Her ankle was swollen.
“You two come for tea?” the elderly woman asked.
Emily almost laughed from relief.
“We came for insulin.”
Eleanor looked at Michael.
“Well, you’re not her usual company.”
“Long story.”
“Clearly.”
Emily explained Danny.
Eleanor immediately pointed to the refrigerator.
“Red box.”
Exactly as Grace remembered.
There were several insulin pens inside.
But Emily hesitated.
“Can he use yours?”
Eleanor frowned.
“How would I know?”
Michael said, “Doctor might.”
They radioed through a portable handheld unit one biker had given them.
Weak signal.
Eventually they reached Ray the trucker.
Then dispatch.
Then Dr. Morales.
She carefully confirmed the type of insulin and warned them not to administer anything until she gave precise medical instructions based on Danny’s normal regimen.
Emily listened.
Repeated everything back.
Then Eleanor interrupted.
“You’re not leaving me here.”
Emily looked at her ankle.
“You can’t walk.”
“I noticed.”
Michael crouched.
“I can carry you.”
Eleanor studied him.
“You drink?”
“Sometimes.”
“Smoke?”
“Used to.”
“Married?”
“Widowed.”
Eleanor nodded.
“You’ll do.”
Michael stared.
Emily laughed for the first time that night.
Getting back took twice as long.
Michael carried Eleanor most of the way.
Emily carried the medicine.
When they reached the diner rear door, Grace came running.
“Mommy!”
Emily dropped to her knees and hugged her.
Michael carefully placed Eleanor in a booth.
The entire diner seemed relieved.
Then Danny suddenly began vomiting.
Pete rolled him onto his side.
“Emily!”
She ran over.
Danny’s breathing was deeper now.
Faster.
His eyes struggled to focus.
They contacted Dr. Morales again.
Following the physician’s instructions, using Danny’s known prescription information and Eleanor’s compatible supply, they administered the medically directed dose.
Then they waited.
Fifteen minutes.
Thirty.
Forty-five.
Emily checked his glucose again.
Lower.
Still dangerous.
But lower.
Danny opened his eyes.
“Where am I?”
Michael leaned over him.
“Still in the diner.”
Danny frowned.
“Did I die?”
“No.”
“Damn.”
Grace appeared behind Michael.
“You said another bad word.”
Danny looked toward her.
“Kid, if I survive this, I owe you a swear jar.”
Grace nodded.
“Five dollars.”
Danny closed his eyes.
“Extortion.”
The bikers laughed softly.
Emily looked around.
Something had changed.
Hours earlier she had seen thirty-nine threats.
Now she saw people.
Messy people.
Rough people.
Men with histories she probably didn’t want to know.
But people.
Michael walked toward the wall near the register.
The wooden sign caught his attention again.
He touched its edge.
“Walter Carter.”
Emily looked over.
“You keep staring at that.”
Michael became strangely quiet.
“You said your father ran this place?”
“Forty-three years.”
“He ever ride?”
Emily froze.
“Motorcycles?”
“Yes.”
“When he was young.”
Michael slowly turned.
“What kind?”
“I don’t know. He quit before I was born.”
Michael stared at her.
“What year did he open the diner?”
“Nineteen eighty-three.”
“What was he doing before that?”
Emily felt an uneasy chill.
“Why?”
Michael stepped closer to the sign.
At the bottom corner, almost hidden beneath decades of grease and varnish, was a tiny carved symbol.
A wing.
An old road marker.
Michael ran one thumb across it.
“I know that mark.”
Emily’s voice lowered.
“From where?”
Michael looked at her.
“From a man who saved my life thirty-two years ago.”
Emily stopped breathing.
Michael pointed at the carving.
“He used to put that symbol on everything he owned.”
Outside, thunder rolled across Redwood Valley.
Emily looked at her father’s handwriting.
Then at Michael.
“What was his name?”
Michael answered quietly.
May you like
“Walter Carter.”
And suddenly the stranger she had feared at her door seemed to know a part of her father’s life Emily had never known existed.
