“Wyatt!”

“Down here!” I holler back.

“Shit!” I hear Trent yell. “We’re coming! Dad, go on that side,” he instructs.

“Oh my God!” Mama’s voice yells.

There’s a lot of movement as my brother comes to my side. “How is she?”

I relay everything I know, and he nods. “We need to move her, Wyatt. There’s gas leaking, and we can’t wait. I have a brace in my car. Hang tight.”

He rushes to his car and then returns. It feels like hours are passing. Her blonde hair is now matted with blood, and she still won’t open her eyes.

“Get her. Get her now!”

“We can hurt her more if we’re not careful, brother.”

Trent decides the best way to get her out is the already shattered windshield. He knocks out what’s left of the glass as I shield Angie as best as I can. More noise filters through the once silent woods as more people arrive.

Presley’s voice cuts through. “Angie! No!”

I focus on doing what I can, but there are more lights and more people yelling as Trent, Zach, my dad, and the EMT guys all move to the front of the car. “All right, Wyatt,” Trent’s commanding tone grabs my attention. “I need to know if you’re injured anywhere.”

“Just my shoulder. I’m fine,” I bite out, watching more of Angie’s blood soak into the fabric of my shirt.

“Good. I need you to cut her seat belt, and then Zach and I are going to help maneuver her. I need you to stay as calm as you can, okay?”

Anger fills my body. “Stop talking! She needs help!”

I don’t know how long it’s been. It could be minutes. It could be hours. But we’re wasting time. Every second she spends in here is a second I could lose her.

“Calm, Wyatt,” Zach says holding my eyes. “We need to move her carefully so we don’t cause any damage.”

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. “I’m ready.”

“Okay, cut the belt.” Trent’s steady voice commands.

I do as he says, and she slouches forward in my arms. I hold her, trying to leverage myself against the dash. My brothers are on each side of the car, both of their arms extended to take her. We coordinate our movements, careful not to jostle her too much or let her body touch the glass. When she’s out, they quickly move her to the EMTs.

My father helps me out, and then I’m by her side.

She’s lifted onto the gurney, where Thom and Beau, two guys I’ve known my whole damn life, start to work on her. They attach wires and start running, yelling things back and forth to each other.

“Get in the ambulance,” Trent says. “He needs to be checked too!”

I hop in on autopilot. She’s fading away. I can feel it.

“In bound fifteen minutes, thirty-six-year-old female, unconscious from a head injury. Possible internal injuries and pregnant.” Thom says into his radio before turning to look at me. “How many weeks?” he asks.

I just look at her as Beau inserts an IV. I watch as he continues to try to talk to her, but she doesn’t move. She lies there, blood all over her clothes, glass in her beautiful hair, and cuts all over her body.

“Wyatt!” Thom yells. “How many weeks pregnant is she?”

My eyes don’t move from hers. “She’s twenty-four weeks.”

Twenty-four weeks I’ve had her.

Please God don’t let me lose her.

MY MIND CAN’T STOP SPINNING. I’ve never felt as desperate as I do now. I’ll do anything for her to be okay, but it’s out of my hands.

The ambulance ride was agony. I sat there as she had tubes, needles, and monitors beeping every one of her vital signs. They asked questions that I think I answered. She laid there.

Not moving.

And each second that passed, a piece of me died. I should’ve turned the wheel the other way. I should’ve left ten minutes later. I should have told her I love her. I should’ve done so many fucking things. But I failed.

We make it to the hospital, and I hold her hand until they tell me I can’t go any farther. The moment when my skin lost contact with hers, I felt like I was going to collapse. I don’t know if she’ll be okay or when I can see her.

Zach, Presley, Trent, Mama, Daddy, and I all sit in the waiting room. I recount the details of the accident as best as I can. Presley and my mama have a constant stream of tears. Zach and Trent offer me silent support. Each of them grasp my shoulder, tell me it wasn’t my fault, but I just keep talking. I tell them about how the deer sent the car into a spin, how the roads were the perfect storm, and how I couldn’t get the car to correct. I know what to do when a vehicle is fishtailing or spinning, but it was as if it made it worse.

“There was nothing you could do,” Trent tries to reassure me again. “None of us could’ve prevented the deer, Wyatt.”

“If something happens to her . . .”

Zach grips my arm. “She’s in the best care possible.”

They took Angie into immediate emergency surgery, explaining the baby was in distress and they found signs of internal bleeding. I tried to ask questions, but they said they needed to get in there and would be out as soon as they could.

There’s nothing I can do right now but pray.

So I do.

I hold my mama’s hand and try to stay strong.

Each time I close my eyes, I see her smiling face. How happy she was when we were talking about names. Just three hours ago, she was sitting on the porch swing, rubbing her stomach with her face filled with life.

I feel like I’m dying inside.

I’ve failed her and our daughter.

Seconds turn to minutes which fade to hours. Time passes, and I feel as if I’m petrifying.

Each time the door opens, my heart stops.

Each time they talk to another family, my heart breaks.

“I can’t sit here!” I stand, needing to move. “I can’t wait for them to tell me.” I’m shattering. I can feel it. A pained sound rips from my throat, and Trent embraces me. “I can’t wait for her to die!”

“Don’t think like that. You have to be strong. You have to have faith, brother.”

Faith.

Presley releases a sob at that word, knowing damn well that’s what Angie wants to name our little girl.

“I need her to be okay. I have to talk to her.”

Trent grips my shoulders. “I know. The doctors are working on her. No news is good news, Wyatt. It means she’s fighting.”

I look at him with blurry vision. “I can’t lose her like this.” If I say it enough, maybe the world will understand—maybe I can will it to be true.

“They’ll do everything they can,” my oldest brother says with conviction.

“It was my fault. I was driving that fucking car. I wanted to take the truck, but she said she hated climbing in and out of it. So, I let her convince me to take her car! Now, look where we are! Now look. I should’ve taken the truck when I saw it was raining. I should’ve done something!”

“This isn’t your fault.” My father comes toward us. “I know you’re a man and that you want to own this, but this is not your fault. And no matter what happens, you can’t be thinkin’ that way. Understand?”