Paramedics arrived, surprised by the accurate field assessment Jake rattled off: probable fibula fracture, possible rib contusion, no LOC, pupils equal and reactive. Emma’s eyes never left him. “Is Mr. Jake coming too?”
The lead paramedic glanced at the sheriff’s deputy sizing up Jake’s ink, then at the frightened child. “If she wants him, he rides.”
In the ambulance Emma’s tiny hand found his. Jake held on, throat tight, remembering another ride that ended in silence.
At St. Mary’s Hospital Emma vanished behind trauma doors. Jake waited in the antiseptic corridor until a woman in scrubs burst through the entrance — Sarah Martinez, Emma’s aunt, face pale with dread. She spotted him: tall, bearded, leather and tattoos screaming trouble.
“You found her,” she said, voice shaking. “The deputy said you stayed with her the whole time.”
“She was scared. Seemed like the right thing.”
Sarah studied him, hostility softening into something like wonder. “Thank you.”
Emma’s voice drifted from behind a curtain, calling for “Mr. Jake.” Each plea pulled at him until he couldn’t walk away. He returned with her rescued teddy bear, Mr. Patches, and stayed.