savings, but it had given him insight into what his future held. He was on his own, and that was fine with him.
Then, fame had happened to him, and suddenly Janet was back in his life, the ideal mother of an American hero. She should have known better. She should have understood that the reporters surrounding her were not her friends. They’d turned on her, of course, and the revelations they brought to light turned her back into the person she’d been all through JD’s childhood—an addict. Fortunately for Janet, he now had every resource at his disposal, and just before disappearing, he’d arranged for her to go to the best rehab facility in southern California. He hoped like hell they’d do their job—and that Janet would do hers, and get better. Years of sobriety shattered by a handful of press reports. God, he hated the media.
Growing up, JD always thought he wanted to be a family physician, caring for people from cradle to grave.
But he’d been wrong. His true calling was to be an EMT, like the men and women who had brought hismother back from that final overdose. JD had never learned their names, had never seen them again. And that seemed somehow appropriate. To JD, it was the ideal job—saving people and then setting them free. That was the best of both worlds. As an emergency-aid worker, he could savor the rush of satisfaction of keeping them from dying, yet he wouldn’t have to think about where they’d be the next day or the next month or even the next decade. An EMT spent an average of 13.5 minutes in the life of a victim, and in that blink of time, he made all the difference.
Works for me, JD had said to the army recruiter. After his mother had cleaned herself up, cleaned out the rest of JD’s savings and then ditched him for a better life in California, he’d enlisted in the U.S. Army. They promised him a great job, a steady income, a life of travel and adventure and money for his education.
Sometimes JD wished he had read the fine print better. Still, he’d gone through the toughest training the army offered and, after eighteen months of unbelievable hell, he was certified as a Special Forces Medic, the most qualified and elite trauma specialist in the military.
In Port Angeles, far from the rest of the world, he turned down First Street and found a parking spot. He went to the marine-supply store for a long list of supplies—tar and seam filler, varnish, epoxy, marine plywood, fiberglass glue. When Sam had offered the lakeside cabin for the summer, he had urged JD to use the cosine wherry, a wooden rowboat hand built by his late father. He’d gone on and on about the hours he and his dad had spent in the boat when Sam was a boy. He probably pictured it as something perfect from his boyhood. Well, it wasn’t perfect. Not even close. JD had found the boathouse draped in spiderwebs, the boat stored hull up andhalf-rotted. Some sort of rodent—maybe chipmunks or raccoons—had made a nest under it. Though he didn’t know the first thing about boat-building, JD had immediately decided to make the boat his project. He would restore the wherry so that when Sam brought his family to the lake at summer’s end, the boat would be ready for him.
After loading the supplies into the truck, he decided to check his post office box. Sam was diligent about forwarding his mail from D.C. Sam had carte blanche to open and throw away anything that looked weird, which was pretty much all of his mail these days. People came out of the woodwork to send him everything from invitations to prayer chains to unsolicited marriage proposals. He was flooded with photographs of women and the occasional man wanting to meet him, the images sometimes pathetic, sometimes lewd, sometimes downright scary. Early on during the ordeal, he had made a serious error in judgment, signing an agreement with Maurice Williams, LLD. The media agent had promised to represent and protect JD’s interests, to guide him through the
Then, fame had happened to him, and suddenly Janet was back in his life, the ideal mother of an American hero. She should have known better. She should have understood that the reporters surrounding her were not her friends. They’d turned on her, of course, and the revelations they brought to light turned her back into the person she’d been all through JD’s childhood—an addict. Fortunately for Janet, he now had every resource at his disposal, and just before disappearing, he’d arranged for her to go to the best rehab facility in southern California. He hoped like hell they’d do their job—and that Janet would do hers, and get better. Years of sobriety shattered by a handful of press reports. God, he hated the media.
Growing up, JD always thought he wanted to be a family physician, caring for people from cradle to grave.
But he’d been wrong. His true calling was to be an EMT, like the men and women who had brought hismother back from that final overdose. JD had never learned their names, had never seen them again. And that seemed somehow appropriate. To JD, it was the ideal job—saving people and then setting them free. That was the best of both worlds. As an emergency-aid worker, he could savor the rush of satisfaction of keeping them from dying, yet he wouldn’t have to think about where they’d be the next day or the next month or even the next decade. An EMT spent an average of 13.5 minutes in the life of a victim, and in that blink of time, he made all the difference.
Works for me, JD had said to the army recruiter. After his mother had cleaned herself up, cleaned out the rest of JD’s savings and then ditched him for a better life in California, he’d enlisted in the U.S. Army. They promised him a great job, a steady income, a life of travel and adventure and money for his education.
Sometimes JD wished he had read the fine print better. Still, he’d gone through the toughest training the army offered and, after eighteen months of unbelievable hell, he was certified as a Special Forces Medic, the most qualified and elite trauma specialist in the military.
In Port Angeles, far from the rest of the world, he turned down First Street and found a parking spot. He went to the marine-supply store for a long list of supplies—tar and seam filler, varnish, epoxy, marine plywood, fiberglass glue. When Sam had offered the lakeside cabin for the summer, he had urged JD to use the cosine wherry, a wooden rowboat hand built by his late father. He’d gone on and on about the hours he and his dad had spent in the boat when Sam was a boy. He probably pictured it as something perfect from his boyhood. Well, it wasn’t perfect. Not even close. JD had found the boathouse draped in spiderwebs, the boat stored hull up andhalf-rotted. Some sort of rodent—maybe chipmunks or raccoons—had made a nest under it. Though he didn’t know the first thing about boat-building, JD had immediately decided to make the boat his project. He would restore the wherry so that when Sam brought his family to the lake at summer’s end, the boat would be ready for him.
After loading the supplies into the truck, he decided to check his post office box. Sam was diligent about forwarding his mail from D.C. Sam had carte blanche to open and throw away anything that looked weird, which was pretty much all of his mail these days. People came out of the woodwork to send him everything from invitations to prayer chains to unsolicited marriage proposals. He was flooded with photographs of women and the occasional man wanting to meet him, the images sometimes pathetic, sometimes lewd, sometimes downright scary. Early on during the ordeal, he had made a serious error in judgment, signing an agreement with Maurice Williams, LLD. The media agent had promised to represent and protect JD’s interests, to guide him through the
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