Bailey coughed harder. Her lungs screamed. Her head spun.
“No,” she muttered. “Not today. Not on my watch.”
She pulled again, straining with a strength she didn’t know she had. Inch by inch, she dragged him across the seat. Her muscles burned, her back throbbed, but she didn’t stop.
Finally, he came loose all at once, and they both tumbled out of the car in a heap. His full weight slammed into her, knocking the breath from her lungs. For one horrifying second, everything went gray.
Then survival kicked in.
She shoved him off, grabbed him again under the arms, and dragged him farther away from the car. Ten feet. Twenty. Thirty. Far enough that if the Mercedes burst into flames, they might live.
She collapsed beside him on the grass, gasping for air.
In the distance, sirens wailed.
Bailey yanked off her work jacket and pressed it against the cut on his head. Up close, despite the blood, his face looked calm. Peaceful, almost. His eyelashes were absurdly long.
“You’re going to be okay,” she whispered. “Help’s coming.”
His lips moved.
Bailey leaned closer. “What is it?”
“Ring,” he whispered. “Center console. Grandmother’s ring. Please… don’t let it burn.”
A ring. He was half dead, and he was worried about a ring.
“Don’t think about that right now,” Bailey said. “Just stay with me.”
But his hand weakly found hers.
“She raised me after my parents died,” he breathed. “All I have left of her.”
Something in Bailey’s chest tightened. She knew what it meant to cling to the last thing left of someone who loved you.
“Okay,” she said softly. “I promise. I’ll get your grandmother’s ring.”
His eyes fluttered open for just a second. Dark brown, unfocused, but looking right at her. His gaze caught on the crescent moon-shaped birthmark near her left cheek.
“Angel,” he whispered.
“I’m no angel,” Bailey said, squeezing his hand. “I’m just too stubborn to let you die.”
Then his eyes closed again.
Panic surged through her. She reached for his pulse.
Still there. Weak, but there.
Moments later, paramedics and firefighters swarmed the scene. Bailey answered questions as they worked on him, barely noticing her own torn hands and blood-soaked clothes.
When they loaded him into the ambulance, she remembered the ring.
“The ring,” she called. “It’s in the center console. His grandmother’s ring. Please.”
A paramedic went back to the wreck and returned with a small velvet box. He placed it in Bailey’s hand.
“You keep it safe,” he said. “When he wakes up, you can give it to him yourself.”
But Bailey didn’t even know his name.
The ambulance sped away, leaving her standing alone on Route 41, covered in blood and gasoline, clutching a velvet ring box in the cold September night.
She sat on the grass for twenty minutes after they left, too shaken to move.
When she finally opened the box, she found a vintage sapphire ring surrounded by tiny diamonds. It was beautiful. Old, elegant, clearly worn with love for decades.
“I’ll keep it safe,” she whispered. “I promise.”
Then she ordered a ride home, wincing at the cost. Fifty-two dollars. Nearly a quarter of her secret savings.
Worth it, she told herself. He’s alive.
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