The craft left a gash in the earth where it hit, forming parallel heaps of dirt around a muddy ditch. Grass and trees flickered orange as fire crackled and tore over the site, and plumes of black smoke spiraled into the sky. The acrid smell of burning vegetation and scorched metal filled the air. Heat licked my cheeks, promising to set me ablaze if I came too close.

I could have turned back, and I wanted to—burned alive in a chemical fire was a far less peaceful way to go than a bullet—but the man’s desperate pleas kept me going. 

“Help!” he screamed, louder than before.

The ship looked even stranger up close, like a pop art dragonfly crafted from metal and flashing light. Not much of it had survived the impact, but the little that did was smooth and sporty, the corners sharp as blades. By the time I reached the open cockpit, I was convinced whoever I’d find waiting for me wouldn’t be human. He had to be some kind of space alien; this was a spacecraft; and I was about to make first contact. Social media had better get ready for my next few posts.

“Thank Christ,” said the pilot. “Get me out of here, please!” Although wearing an unusual blue and silver uniform I didn’t recognize, the man I found was fully human (my mistake), and he didn’t look too good. Both of his dark eyes had already swollen to slits; his brown skin had a purple hue; blood poured from his nose into his well-groomed beard. But ugly though his face may be, it was nothing compared to his tattered, red-soaked pants. The dashboard (if that’s what it’s called in a plane) had bent forward, crushing his left leg. No wonder he hadn’t ejected.

“Oh perfect, my sisters always say the only thing I’m good for is lifting heavy things.” I slid into the cockpit, practically onto his lap, to assess the situation. Joking around might not have been the most appropriate response, but it beat confused screaming, which was also on the table.

“Just get this off me!” he snapped.

“I’m not a first-responder.”

“Yeah, no shit. You’re like twelve.”

I was seventeen, actually. And I knew for a fact I looked at least twenty.

“I’m just letting you know. I don’t think anyone else is coming. It would’ve been better if you’d crashed a little closer to town. Plus, you’re kind of ruining my day.”

“Great. A God damn comedian. Either get this off me or get the hell out of here.”

I should have called an ambulance. Hoisting him out of the rubble with no medical experience was a bad idea. I vaguely recalled some first aid training I’d had once, but it was mostly CPR. One thing was for sure, I definitely wasn’t supposed to move him if there was a possible spinal injury. On the other hand, I didn’t know if there was a possible spinal injury, and I didn’t know how to tell.

The man gasped through the smoke and pain. I had to do something before things got any worse. Against my better judgment, I straddled his injured leg, gripped the bottom of the dash, and pulled. But it didn’t budge. Not even a millimeter. I was strong, but not that strong.

Thick smoke blurred my vision, stinging my eyes and throat. The man coughed and wheezed, his breaths growing more desperate. There wasn’t time to rethink my strategy. I adjusted my grip, feeling the sweat slick on my palms. Fingers latched, I widened my stance the best I could in the confined space and threw my full weight into it. My muscles strained against the resistance.

The craft roared but still didn’t move.

The man collapsed into a coughing fit. The heat of the fire clawed my throat. Again. I had to try again. I held my breath and pulled. The metal dug into my hands. They say to “lift with your legs and not your back,” but screw it—I lifted with every last part of me. My skeleton threatened to crack under the pressure. At any moment, I could’ve snapped in half. Then, the ship moaned. Something shifted. I was doing it! Until—

Ice?

It bit into my abdomen above my right hip and startled me. I dropped the minuscule progress I’d made on the dash, and the man winced.

But it wasn’t ice chewing my skin.

It was fire.

I swatted the flames until they went out, just in time to see the man double over, gagging on the fumes. When escaping a house fire, one should place a damp rag over their face, or something, right? The man’s sweat drenched the back of my button-up where I’d leaned into his chest. Maybe it would help? I stripped it off, leaving just my undershirt, and shoved it over his nose and mouth. I could only hope it would filter out some of the poison getting into his lungs, although it probably stank worse than the fumes.

“Get out of here, kid,” he wheezed.

“Not going to happen, adult. Lucky for you, I don’t give a crap if I die. Come on. Let’s go.”

My teeth might have shattered under the pressure of my jaw. My eyes might have popped out of my head. My ears might have bled. My fingers might have broken. But I didn’t stop. I screamed as I pulled with everything I had, and the man did too. We cried out together in unified pain.

The dash moaned, and it wasn’t much, but the weight came up just enough for him to squeeze his leg out. I would have breathed a sigh if there was any air left to breathe. I climbed up to the cockpit rim, ready to help the man out, when something even worse than the fire rushed over his uniform.

Blood.

My head swam. It was more blood than I had ever seen. If it was an artery, he’d be dead in minutes. Maybe even seconds.

“Shit,” I said. A dollar for Camila’s swear jar. I was right about trying to help him with no medical training.

“Your belt,” he instructed.

I slid it off as quickly as I could and handed it over. He wrapped it around his leg, beside his crotch, and stuck it through the buckle.

“Here,” he said, handing me the loose end. “Pull as tight as you can.”

And I did. I pulled so tight he cried out and I worried I’d done the wrong thing. But he patted my back and showed me how to secure it. Then the coughing started again. And the gagging. I had to get him out of there. 

I wrapped my arms around him and hauled him to the top of the craft. From there, I was able to leverage him onto my shoulders and carry him over the crown of the dragonfly’s head, down the nose, onto the hill, and clear of the fire. But our makeshift tourniquet wasn’t doing its job. A hot red gush flooded down my arm.

“Put me down,” he croaked.

I stopped beside a tree and leaned him against the trunk.

“Does your back hurt?” I still wasn’t sure about spinal injuries.

“What? No.” He scooped a utility knife out of his back pocket and hacked away at his pant leg. His hands shook, and each of his breaths sounded like a balloon deflating. I rolled the knife out of his fingers and took over the job. He needed rest.

With his leg exposed, he instructed me to dress the wound in the shredded fabric and reset the belt. Blood still ran down his thigh, but it was a slow trickle rather than a raging river.

The sun set, and fire raged in the twilight dim. A brisk wind carried the scorching heat of the flames off my seared and blistered skin.

“Thanks,” the man said.

“You can thank me if you’re still alive when I get you to the hospital. I hope you have good insurance. I’m Chance, by the way. Most people call me Mama.”

“Seriously?”

“When I’m not rescuing downed pilots, I’m best known for taking care of a house full of girls. They’re my sisters. It would be kind of inappropriate for them to call me Daddy.”

“Right. I’m not calling you that. Come on. Let’s go. I don’t want to die in the dirt.”

“You’re right. Dying in the backseat of my car is going to be much more comfortable. You have a name?”

“Yeah.” He bobbed his head. “Commander Lucas Von. Most people call me Sir.”

I was good at fake laughing. It was all in the eyes. That’s how I convinced others it was real. “Yes, sir,” I chuckled. “Let’s get you some help, sir.”

And then, with Commander Lucas Von slung over my shoulders, I did something I’d set out that day to never do again.

I walked back to the lake house.