Page 35 of Gabbi's Goalie

"Atlas!" I drop everything in my hands and race forward, flinging splintered boards aside in a frantic search. "Atlas!"

He doesn't answer me. He doesn't make a sound.

I sob his name, grabbing wood as fast as I can, trying to get him out. Rusty nails scrape my palms. Splinters gouge into my flesh. I don't care. He's under there, and he isn't answering me.

He's hurt.

Please, God, only let him be hurt. Don't let him be dead. Don't let him be dead.I repeat it like a mantra, tears dripping down my face, blood running down my hands from cuts.

"Atlas!" Oh, thank you Jesus. I can see him. He's at the edge of the collapsed structure, face down. I don't know if he's breathing, but he isn't moving. Another sob bursts from my lips, as I drop to my knees beside him, reaching for his hand.

I hold my breath, terror clogging my throat as I check for his pulse.

"Thank you. Oh, God, thank you," I sob, nearly collapsing when I find it. His heart is still beating. He isn't dead. I've never been so afraid in my life. "Atlas, wake up."

Despite shaking him, he doesn't move or make a sound. Relief turns to alarm and then another wave of panic rolls in. It's been at least five minutes since the porch collapsed. If he got knocked out, he should be waking up by now.

The fact that he isn't even moving is seriously concerning.

But I can't even assess him until he's out of harm's way. If the rest of the porch collapses, there's a good possibility it'll land right on top of him. He's still wedged beneath it, only a few feet of clear space above him.

I use clothes from my bag and a couple of small pieces of wood to face a brace for his neck to keep him immobile while I'm moving him. There isn't a lot of space to work with and I don't have time to make it perfect, but I do what I can and pray it's enough.

I grab his arm and slowly start dragging him out.

On a good day, he's a lot of man to move. On a day like today, when he's dead weight, he seems even bigger. And somehow so much more vulnerable at the same time.

I end up on my butt, with him partially draped across my lap so I can help stabilize his neck. I use my feet to propel us backward, ignoring the small rocks and weeds jabbing me. By the time I have him out of immediately danger, I'm sweating and crying, trying not to give into hysteria.

If I can't take care of the man I love when he's completely reliant on me to get him out of this alive, I have no business taking care of anyone. But he didn't even move through the entire ordeal, and that's not a good sign.

He's bruised and bloody, with a two-inch gash across the right side of his forehead. Another head injury. And this time, it's one that knocked him unconscious.

I quickly assess him, but he doesn't have any broke bones. No other obvious signs of trauma, either. He needs more aid than I can give him out here, though. I use the flashlight on my phone to check his pupils. They're slower to respond than I'd like. He needs a hospital and doctors. His brain could be swelling or bleeding.

"Please, don't leave me," I plead, gently touching his face. "Please, Atlas. I need you to be okay." I just found him. I haven't even told him that I love him. He said it last night, but I didn't say it back. I was too caught up in the moment. Now, the moment has passed and I'm terrified I'll never get the chance to tell him that he has my whole heart.

No. That's not going to happen. I'm going to get him out of here. No matter what it takes, he's not dying in the woods because I got us lost.

Isettoworkmaking a litter of sturdy branches woven together with the clothes from my bag. It's the most pitiful looking thing I've ever seen in my life. But it doesn't have to hold up for long. Just long enough for me to get him inside to safety so I can hike out for help.

We had reception a few miles before the road split. If I can make it back there, I can call out and get help to him. Maybe by now, someone has even found his car, and they're looking for us.

It takes an hour to drag him around to the back of the cabin. I carefully test the tiny back porch, going so far as to jump up and down to make sure it'll hold. It's not nearly as far off the ground as the front porch and it seems sturdy. I wrap my hand in a towel and break the glass out of the door so I can unlock it.

Once it's open, I start the process of hauling him up the steps. Every time he bounces, I cry an apology. I don't know if he can hear me, but I hope he can. I hope he knows I'm trying to save his life.

My legs feel like rubber by the time I get him inside. There's no way I'm going to be able to get him in the bed, so I don't try. I don't relit the fire either. If he does have brain swelling, the only thing I can do for him right now is hope he gets cold enough without the fire while I'm gone to keep it to a minimum.

"I'm coming back for you," I promise, using his facial recognition to unlock his phone to tap out a note to him in case he wakes up. Please, God, let him wake up.

I lay the phone on his chest, press a kiss to his scruffy jaw, and scurry out. By the time my feet hit the ground, I'm running. I race as fast as I can down the overgrown driveway and out onto the narrow trail.

In the light of day, it's easy to see what we couldn't last night. This isn't a road at all, but a logging trail of some sort. One that clearly hasn't been used in a long time.

My lungs and my legs burn as I jog—stumble, really—down the trail, following our footprints from last night. I have to stop a few times to rest, but I make it back to the car in twenty-five minutes.

If anyone has been there, I can't tell. I quickly start it to charge my phone as much as possible while I search for paper and a pen to write a note. I find an old envelope in the glove compartment and a pen in the trunk.