The third day of silence.

At station 51 in Carson, California, the senior A-shift paramedic sat behind the wheel of the red Dodge rescue squad and stared unseeing at the closed bay door.  'He'll be here soon,' he thought.  'He'll ride to my right, on the passenger side, as if he belonged there.  Because he will belong there now, as I belong here.  And maybe I'll let him drive once in a while.  And I'll teach him everything I've ever learned and probably in time we'll get to be friends.  But I won't call him Junior, and if by some chance he happens to call me Pally I will politely tell him that that's not my name.  And someday things will start to seem normal.  But this squad, this station is broken, and no matter how we glue it back together it will always show, because there is a big piece missing.'

He looked over as Captain Stanley came up by the open driver's side door.  "Are you okay?"

"No," he answered honestly.

Cap gave him a small, tight, sympathetic smile.  Before he could speak they were interrupted by the sound of footsteps ringing on the concrete floor.  Together the two men turned as a lanky redhead in a freshly pressed uniform approached them.

"Captain Stanley?" he asked hesitantly.  "I'm Fred Mitchell.  I was supposed to report here today?"

Stanley summoned a smile.  "I'm Captain Stanley.  Call me Cap.  Welcome to 51s, Mitchell.  This is your new partner."

The older paramedic held out a hand, not bothering to smile or to hide the sorrow in the depth of his dark eyes.  "Gage," he said.  "John Gage."  He searched for something else to say, as he couldn't in all honesty pretend that there was any pleasure for him in this meeting.  "It's good to meet you," he finished finally.

Seventy-two hours earlier . . . .

John Gage backed the squad into the parking lot at Rampart General and went in the emergency entrance.  He walked with a casual saunter, tossing the HT in his hand and whistling lightly between his teeth.  Passing a pretty nurse he didn't know yet, he turned and walked backwards down the hallway for several yards while he watched her retreating form.  He sighed appreciatively and turned back to the nurses' station.  Carol Williams was manning the station, and Johnny greeted her cheerfully.

"Hey!  How's it going?  Say, have you seen my partner around anywhere?  He came in with a patient on a chopper, probably about twenty minutes ago."

Carol gave him a strange look.  Before she could answer another voice interrupted her.

"John?"

Johnny turned and found Dr. Kelly Brackett, the head of emergency services at Rampart and the paramedic program's main supervisor, standing in the doorway of his office.  His face was grave.

"Can you come in here, please?  I need to talk to you."

Johnny followed him into his office and found that they were not alone.  Silver-haired, kindly neurologist Joe Early was also there, as was head nurse Dixie McCall.  Early was as solemn as Brackett was.  Dixie stood facing the window, not looking at them.  Johnny had no idea what could be behind this meeting, but he felt his stomach drop and the air seemed suddenly not to have enough oxygen.

"Doc?  Um, I mean Docs.  Dix?  Is there a problem?  What's going on?"

Brackett sighed, leaned against his desk and crossed his arms as Joe Early came to stand close to Johnny.  "There's no easy way to tell you this, John," Brackett said.  "The helicopter that was carrying Roy and his victim to the hospital . . . it didn't make it.  We think they suffered some sort of mechanical malfunction.  They lost altitude rapidly while they were still up in the canyons.  They started to climb again, but then they went into a tailspin and crashed against a high ridge.  The copter exploded on impact.  I'm sorry, John.  I'm so very sorry."

Johnny took a breath and shook his head to clear it.  "I'm sorry.  I don't think I understand.  You're telling me . . . Roy's hurt?  In an accident?"

"The helicopter exploded on impact," Brackett repeated patiently.  "I'm telling you that he's dead, John.  I'm sorry.  He's gone."

"No.  No, that can't be," Johnny said, laughing with a touch of hysteria.  "There's gotta be a mistake of some kind.  I would know if he was dead, you see?  And he's not."  The two doctors were looking at him, their faces wearing identical looks of sorrow and pity.  Johnny's voice climbed in pitch and volume as he spoke without thinking, desperate and frustrated.  "I just saw him not a half hour ago.  I helped him load up the victim onto the chopper.  He was razzing me about not hunting up any rattlesnakes after he was gone.  He said he'd see me here.  So he's probably just here somewhere.  Yeah.  I bet he's down in the cafeteria, waiting for me.  That's it.  You'll see."

Joe Early put an arm around Johnny's shoulders.  "Sit down, Johnny.  Captain Stanley's on his way over here now.  Let's all just sit down and wait for him, why don't we?"

"I can't!  I have to go find Roy!"

Dixie turned then and looked at him.  Her lovely face was red with weeping.  Tears ran freely and her shoulders shook with sobs.  In that instant it all sank in and became real for Johnny.  He dropped into one of the doctor's visitor's chairs, suddenly unable to stand.

Early squeezed Johnny's shoulder and offered him a box of tissue.  "Go ahead and cry, Johnny.  We are too."  Johnny looked up and saw that the two doctors' eyes also brimmed with tears.  He blinked and buried his face in his hands as a silence descended on his world and settled into all the cracks and crannies of his soul where his best friend's voice belonged.

The fifth day of silence . . . .

#-#- "Squad 51.  Man down.  1200 block of Rangeline Road, on the divider.  Cross street Warren.  Time out 14:04.  #-#-

Johnny jumped into the squad, still feeling like he was sitting on the wrong side of the cab, took the call sheet Cap handed in the window and passed it off to Mitchell, just tightening his helmet strap.  The big bay door slid open before them as he started the engine, hit the lights and sirens and sped out of the station.

When they got to Rangeline they found two CHP officers already there, directing traffic away from the center lanes.  A heavyset, middle-aged man in a loud leisure suit was lying on the divider on his back, arms splayed wide.  He was singing "Oh, What A Beautiful Morning!" at the top of his lungs.  Johnny could smell the alcohol even before he stepped out of the cab.  Looking around, he pinned the nearest CHP with a look.

"He's drunk!"

The cop, one Frank "Ponch" Poncherello, gave him a toothy grin.  "Thanks, Gage.  We figured that one out on our own."

From the other side of the median Ponch's quieter and more serious partner, Jon Baker, called out, "we think he has a broken leg."

Johnny turned to help Fred pull their supplies from the squad's compartments.  "How'd that happen?" he asked.

"Well, we were trying to arrest him for drunk and disorderly when he ran out across the road.  He got to the median and started figure skating."

"Figure skating?"

"That's what it looked like."

"And the leg?"

Jon shrugged.  "It was a pretty good triple axel, but he blew the landing."

Johnny just shook his head and followed Fred across the grass to the victim.

He contacted Rampart and got orders for an IV of ringer's lactate, letting Fred handle the actual treatment while he watched him work, noting what he was doing right, what he could improve; reading his expressions to see what he was confident at and what made him nervous.  It was a relatively easy call and when they had the man's ankle splinted and his IV in they loaded him up on a stretcher and let the ambulance attendants slide him in.

"You go with him," Johnny told Fred.

"Are . . . are you sure?"  This was only their second shift together and on the first Johnny had taken all the ride alongs.

"I'm sure.  You did a good job.  You won't have any problems, but if you do I'll be right behind.  You'll be fine.  Go on now."

The younger man dutifully climbed into the ambulance and Johnny slammed the doors and slapped them twice.  The ambulance took off and melted into traffic.

The two cops exchanged a look and Ponch nodded, jumped on his motorcycle and sped off to escort the ambulance, leaving Jon Baker to come help John Gage gather up his equipment.  Johnny caught the by-play from the corner of his eye and had to fight back a sudden sting of tears at the casual evidence of a close partnership that was, unlike his own, still intact.

He slammed the compartment doors closed and turned to jump in the squad, but Baker stopped him with a hand on his arm.  "Um, John, we just wanted to say . . . me and Ponch . . . well, all the guys, really . . . ."

Johnny closed his eyes and raised a hand to forestall the officer.  "I know.  I know and . . . thanks."

"We've been waiting for word about the funeral?"

"It looks like it's going to have to be a memorial service."  John Gage closed his eyes, trying to will away images of a fire-blackened ridge and the blast-flattened trees spread out in a circle around twisted, charred remnants so badly damaged that if you didn't know they'd once been part of a rescue helicopter you wouldn't be able to tell.  "We went up to the crash site ourselves.  The station, I mean.  There's nothing left but a couple tons of scrap metal and a hell of a lot of ashes.  The coroner's office is still working on it."  He could get through this conversation, he knew, if he kept it clinical enough.  "They're finding a lot of human remains, but it's all too fragmentary and too badly damaged to positively identify any of the victims."

"I heard it was bad," Jon said.

"It flattened trees clear over on the next ridge.  The only good thing is, it would've been fast.  A quick jolt of terror, maybe, and then it was over.  No time for pain."  He'd thought about that a lot and prayed he was right.  The two men stood in silence for a moment, not caring that the squad was still blocking the inner lane, and then John shook himself.

"I have to go.  It's the kid's first ride along and I told him I'd be right behind him."

"Right.  I'll follow along and collect Ponch.  You will let us know, though, if there's ever anything that we can do?"

The tenth day of silence

The human remains from the helicopter accident had been sent to a forensics lab in Kentucky, where scientists would apply the latest techniques in an attempt to separate and identify them.  After discussing it with Roy DeSoto's wife, the fire department had decided to wait until that was done before scheduling his funeral.  Since the procedure would take anywhere from four to eight months to complete, a small memorial service was being held, for family and friends only.

Johnny sat in the front row in his dress uniform and glanced back at the packed church.  He wondered if whoever had planned this service realized just how many friends his partner had had.  And they were, all, genuinely friends.  Johnny could put names to nearly all the faces.  Firefighters, cops, medical personnel.  Along the back of the church stood a solid line of paramedics in regular working uniforms.  One in every two men held an HT, and Johnny knew that these were all the on-duty paramedics in the county who were not currently on a call.  The police had arranged parking to keep their squads out in the open so that they could all say farewell to the man who had been, from the beginning, so much a part of their program.

Joanne DeSoto sat between Johnny and Captain Stanley, dressed in black with a short veil covering her eyes.  Her tears fell freely, but her back was ramrod straight and John knew she was holding herself together, not only for her small children but as a way to honor her husband's memory.

At the front of the church a small table was draped with an American flag.  On it sat Roy's helmet and several framed photographs.  He was young and serious in an army uniform with a Red Cross band on his sleeve.  He was solemn and proud at his fire academy graduation.  He beamed with joy in his and Joanne's wedding photo and with pride in two more photos, holding first a baby boy and then a baby girl.  He stood with Johnny, their arms around one another's shoulders, covered in mud and muck and grinning with delight the night the paramedic program was ratified.  He posed with his shift mates in front of the station, back when 51s was new.

Roy's boots and turnout coat lay on the floor in front of the table, as if he had dropped them there meaning to return momentarily.

The preacher was speaking, Johnny didn't quite know what about.  Something about angels descending into hell to rescue the damned.  The silence in Johnny's head was especially loud today and he stopped listening to the words, letting them drone over him like buzzing bees

When the preacher stopped talking a young woman went up to the organ and began to play.  Though no singer accompanied her, Johnny knew the tune.  In the quiet of his own heart he supplied the words:

"Oh, I've seen fire and I've seen rain.

I've seen sunny days that I thought would never end.

I've seen lonely times when I could not find a friend.

But I always thought that I'd see you again . . . ."

The fourteenth day of silence . . . .

Johnny lifted a picture from the wall, carried it to the locker room and sat on the bench in front of his locker studying it.  Mitchell came in at a run and snatched open his own locker, two down from Johnny's.  There was a familiar 'sproing' and a gallon of water flew out, dousing the younger paramedic.

"Bwa ha ha ha ha haaaaaaaa!"  Ghostly laughter floated around the room.  Mitchell just stood, looking down at his soaked uniform in shock.

"What the . . . ?"

"It's Chet Kelly," Johnny told him, not looking up.  "He calls himself The Phantom.  Your best bet is to just ignore him.  Change into dry clothes and pretend like nothing happened.  He's trying to get a rise out of you and if it doesn't work he's less likely to do it again."

Mitchell had apparently heard nothing after 'it's Chet Kelly'.  He tore off for the kitchen, slipping first in the water and falling to one knee before he pulled himself up and dived through the door.

"Kelly!  You're a dead man!"

Johnny smiled a tiny, sad smile and touched one finger to the picture he was carrying.  "Fred listens to you just about as well as I always have."

The picture was one of A-shift.  It had been taken the day they got the new Ward-LaFrance and Johnny remembered it vividly.  The engine and squad were parked in the driveway in front of the station, angled away from one another, and the men stood between them.  Mike stood next to the new engine at one end of the picture and Roy leaned his back casually against the squad at the other end.  Johnny was standing next to his partner, leaning towards him, and Roy's head was tilted in his direction.  Both men were smirking.

The posing hadn't been intentional, but the dynamics were clear.  Within the larger group, the two paramedics were a unit unto themselves.  They stood together without thinking about it.  Sat next to one another because it was normal for them to do so.  They communicated with looks and gestures and sometimes with pure thought.  And, as when this picture was taken, they often spoke in code words and phrases that only the two of them could understand.

They had been talking earlier about Mike Stoker's reaction to the new engine.

"He acts like his wife just had a baby," Roy laughed.

"Are you kidding?  He acts like he just had a baby."

"Ouch!  Now that would be painful!"

"Especially with a baby that size," Johnny quipped, nodding at the engine.

"I hope they gave him an epidural!"

It was Roy who, just before the flash went off, leaned over and whispered, "episiotomy".

With a sigh Johnny rose and returned the picture.  There was a new picture beside it now.  In this one Fred Mitchell stood with the shift.  Smiles weren't as bright, the posing was less casual.  Johnny still stood by the squad, but now he was alone and separated from the other men.  At first glance it might have seemed as if he were distancing himself from his shiftmates, but Johnny knew that wasn't the case.

He was as close to his friends as he'd ever been.  But this picture had a Roy-sized hole in the middle of it.

The seventeenth day of silence . . . .

#-#- Station 51.  Moving vehicle accident.  Corner of Christkirk and Scotton.  Time out 16:43. #-#-

Johnny jumped in and started the squad, then reached over and stopped Fred as he pulled down his helmet.  "Look inside first."

Fred looked inside and pulled out a cupcake.  "Kelly!"

Johnny took the call slip and passed it over, then sped out the bay doors.  "Eat it," he advised.  "When we get there give him the paper and tell him thanks for the snack."

"I'll kill him!"  Fred clenched his fists in anger, accidentally squishing the cupcake in his hand.  "Oh, gross!"  He held up his cake-encrusted hand in dismay.

Johnny sighed and shook his head.

They reached the scene and found two cars smashed up and sitting crosswise, blocking the road.  Deputy Vince Howard was already there, directing traffic to a detour around the accident site.  Johnny stopped and the engine pulled up behind him.  Chet jumped off and looked at the cars.

"Well, this looks like a piece of cake, wouldn't you say, Mitchell?"

Fred growled low in his throat, but Johnny came around the squad and headed him off.  "Drop it," he said shortly.  "We've got injured here."  He yanked open the compartments on the passenger side, handed Mitchell a four-by-four to wipe his hands on and started yanking equipment.

When everything they'd need was set out and waiting they turned to the wreck.  "I've got the station wagon," Johnny said.  "You take the Camaro."

Suiting action to words, Johnny ran over and leaned in the driver's side window of the station wagon.  From the position of the vehicles and the lack of skid marks it was easy to see that the station wagon had been driving down Christkirk when it was T-boned by the Camaro running a stop sign off of Scotton.  A young woman sat behind the steering wheel, bleeding profusely from a gash in her forehead and shaking violently.  She was muttering in a voice low with hysteria.

"Oh, my God!  Oh, my God!  Oh, God!  Oh, God!"

"Ma'am?"  Johnny tried to get her attention first without touching her.  "Ma'am?  Can you look at me?  I need you to calm down.  Can you do that for me?  I need you to calm down."

Finally the woman turned and gazed at him, her eyes glazed with shock.

"Good.  Okay, you're doing good.  Now, look.  My name's John Gage.  I'm a paramedic with the fire department.  I'm gonna take good care of you.  We're going to get you out of here and get you to a hospital and get you fixed up.  But first I need you to talk to me.  I need you to help me so I can help you.  Can you do that?"

She blinked and John could tell that she was seeing him at last.  "Oh, God!" she whispered.  "He hit me!  He just came out of nowhere and hit me!"  Her eyes opened wide.  "My babies!"

"Babies?  Ma'am, are there children in the car with you?"

"No.  No, I left them.  I just left them.  At the park.  There was a party.  At the park.  A birthday party.  I just left them.  If he'd hit me while they were in the car . . . .  Oh, God!  Oh, God!"  She started to hyperventilate.

"I know.  It's scary.  But he didn't," Johnny said reasonably, working to calm her down.  "Your babies are fine.  Please, ma'am.  Calm down and try to breathe normally.  Was there anyone with you at all?"

"Huh?  Oh, no.  No.  I'm alone."

"Okay, good.  So now we just need to worry about you.  Can you tell me your name?"

"Um, Marla.  Marla Trent.  What's your name?"

"It's John," Johnny repeated.  "John Gage.  I'm a paramedic with the fire department.  Now, I see you have a bad cut on your head.  I'm going to go ahead and put a bandage on it to stop the bleeding, okay?"

Marla nodded, then winced.  Her hysteria finally abating, she sat quietly while he bandaged her head and got her vital signs.

Ten minutes later he was back at the squad getting a backboard.  He glanced over and saw Kelly and Lopez using a chain with the Jaws of Life to pull the steering wheel off the driver of the Camaro while Mitchell monitored the victim's vitals.  He trotted over for a second.

"How's he doing?"

Mitchell looked up.  "Not too bad.  Early's got him on half-normal saline and O2.  He told me to immobilize him and transport."

"Mine's about the same.  She's maybe got a mild concussion.  Cap, Mike?  If they can handle this, can I borrow you two to help me get my victim on a backboard?  She's about ready to transport."

By the time Marla was strapped down and loaded into the waiting ambulance Mitchell's victim was freed as well.  Johnny and Fred both climbed into the ambulance, Cap slammed the door behind them and they sped off.

When they came out of the ER, arms full of replacement supplies, Johnny was surprised to see the engine still sitting in the hospital parking lot next to the squad.  Cap was leaning on the squad and he took the bags of saline from Fred.

"Mitchell, why don't you ride back on the engine?  I'll keep your partner company."

Mitchell looked from one to the other, obviously wondering if they were going to discuss him.  "Uh, okay.  Sure."

"Fine.  Oh, and--" he waited for Fred to turn.  "If you and Kelly get up to any nonsense on the way back, Mike and Marco already have my permission to pitch you both out."

"Um, yes, sir!"

Johnny put the new supplies away slowly, giving the engine plenty of time to get ahead of them.  Then he climbed behind the wheel, waited for Cap to settle in the passenger seat, and pulled out.

Cap waited until they were on the street before he spoke.  "John?  Are you doing okay?"

Johnny turned his head away, swallowing a sharp pain, like a razor in his throat.  "Hell, Cap," he said, his voice choked, "isn't it ever going to stop hurting?"

"No.  No, it's probably not, John.  But eventually it will dull and fade enough that you can live around it."

"Yeah, I know.  I keep telling myself that.  And you know what?  I've lost friends before and I thought I knew just what it was like.  But . . . but . . . ."

"But none of them was Roy?"

"Yeah."

They drove in silence for a couple of minutes before Cap cleared his throat.  "The thing is, John, what I wanted to tell you . . . ."  He faltered, then went on, "you've been so quiet these last couple of weeks and, well, we've all been worried about you.  You know you're not alone, right?  I mean, if there's anything you want to talk about -- anything at all -- I'm here for you.  And the guys, they're there too.  Not just when we're working, I mean.  Anytime.  Anytime at all.  Okay?"

Johnny nodded.  He didn't know how he could explain what he was feeling, but he felt as if he somehow owed it to his captain to try.

"It's not, Cap, it's not that I need to talk to anyone about anything especially.  It's just that . . . it's just . . ." His voice climbed and grew plaintive, a cry from a lost child.  "I want to talk to Roy, Cap!  About anything.  Everything.  Nothing at all.  I just want to talk to him.  I miss that so much!  I want it so bad!"

"I know, John."  Cap turned his head away, fighting tears of his own.  "Hey, you know what?  I think that you should."

"Cap?"

"Talk to him, John.  Just go somewhere quiet where you're all alone and talk to Roy.  Hell, what harm can it do?  And, you know, just because you can't see him doesn't mean he won't be there, or that he can't hear you."

They were at the station now.  John paused a moment out in the street and closed his eyes, then hit the horn and backed the squad in beside the engine.  "Cap, can I ask you a weird question?"

"Sure.  Anything."

"Do you believe in, well, spirits and angels and life-after-death type stuff?"

"Yeah," Cap said without hesitation.

"Yeah?  Just like that?"

"Yeah.  Look, John, don't spread this around, but years ago, back when I was a regular fireman, I was at a big fire in a department store.  I got separated from my own crew, but I wasn't too worried because there was another firefighter right there beside me.  His turnout said Larkin and when he turned I could see that the number on his helmet was 89.  We were doing a victim sweep.  I started to go in this one room but he grabbed my arm and pulled me back just before the ceiling fell.  Well, we made it back to the rest of the crews and in all the confusion I lost sight of him.

"Later, after the fire was out, I went over to 89s looking for him to tell him thanks.  They told me he was dead.  Not just dead, John, but dead and buried over fifteen years earlier.  They believed my story, though, and weren't even surprised.  Seems he rode with them a lot and often turned up in a fire they were fighting when someone needed help."

The two men sat quietly in the squad for a few minutes.

"Wow," Johnny said finally.

"What about you, John?  Do you believe in the afterlife?"

Johnny shrugged.  "Yes.  No.  I don't know.  I've delivered babies and I've watched people die and I still don't know a single thing about where life comes from or where it goes.  And I've never seen anything like a ghost, though there have been times when maybe I felt one."

"Oh, like when?"

"Well . . . I remember several years ago when my grandmother died.  She was very down-to-earth and didn't like to dress up much, but she had this one really nice dress that she got just before she got sick and only wore once or twice.  Just before she died she tried to give the dress to my aunt, but my aunt wouldn't take it.  Later, I went with my aunt to get clothes for her to be buried in and naturally my aunt chose her best dress.  I tell you, Cap, you could feel my grandmother in that car.  She was so . . . annoyed!  I couldn't see her and I couldn't hear her, but it was like her voice was inside my head.  She was talking to my aunt, saying, 'that pretty dress is just going to lay there in the ground and rot and there's no sense in it.  I can be buried in any old rag.  You should take it and wear it and get some use out of it.'  I thought that I was imagining it all, until my aunt broke down crying and said, 'Mom, please!  This is hard enough as it is!'  Turns out she was feeling and hearing the same thing I was."

Cap shook his head, then swallowed hard.  "And now?" he asked.  "With Roy?  Do you hear his voice?  Feel his presence?"

Johnny dropped his head onto the steering wheel and closed his eyes.  "No.  No, I don't.  And that's why I'm wondering now if I've ever really heard or felt anything at all.  Maybe I was wrong.  Maybe it was just my imagination and life comes from nowhere and when it's gone it's gone.  Because it's Roy!  He was my best friend.  If anyone could come back to me surely he would.  But he's not there.  I listen and listen and he's just not there.  He's just gone, like that, and nothing is left but silence."

The nineteenth day of silence . . . .

Johnny ran the power mower over the last stretch of long grass, then pushed it across the back yard to the small garden shed.  He switched it off, disconnected the spark plug and flipped it over to clean the blades with an oiled rag.  When he was done he righted it, lifted it into the shed and closed and locked the door.

"Thank you, Johnny.  For this and for --"

"Shhh!"  Johnny turned and silenced Joanne DeSoto with a finger on her lips.  "Don't thank me, Jo.  Please?  It isn't necessary.  As far as I'm concerned this is my job now."

His partner's wife gave him a moist, tremulous smile.  "Will you come sit down and have a bottle of pop at least?"

"Sure.  I'd be glad to."

She brought the pop and a plate of cookies out to the deck that Johnny had helped Roy build less than a year before and they sat side by side in the shade for several minutes in a companionable silence.  Johnny was the one who finally broke it.

"Joanne, can I ask you a question?  It's kind of strange."

"Sure.  Anything."

"Do you ever feel like Roy's around?  You know, a presence, sort of.  Like he's come into the room with you?  Anything like that?  At all?"

Joanne looked down, staring into the soda bottle without seeing it.  "No, I don't.  And it's funny, because I always sort of thought I would, if this ever happened.  But, no.  There's nothing."  She gave Johnny a sudden, piercing stare.  "Do you?"

Johnny caught the hope in her voice and hated to disappoint her, but he wouldn't lie to her.  "No, I don't."

For several minutes they sat quietly, nursing their sodas in mutual misery.  "Oh, well," Joanne sighed finally.  "I suppose it was a foolish thing to hope for, anyway.  It's just that . . . ."

Johnny glanced over at her, moving only his eyes.  "Mmmm?"

She shrugged.  "You know my family never liked Roy?  My parents wouldn't even come to the wedding.  I know you thought my mother was hard on Roy since you've known us, but actually she's mellowed a lot.

"Anyway, the only one who supported us in wanting to get married was my grandpa.  I wish you could have met him, Johnny!  He was so sweet.  We'd been close since I was little and when Dad and Mom wouldn't come to the wedding he was the one who gave me away.  Well, a couple months later he had a massive stroke and died suddenly."

Joanne stopped to clear her throat.  Tears tracked down her cheeks and Johnny reached over and put an arm around her shoulders.

"The point is," she said, when she could go on, "the point is that for years after he was gone my family told stories about how he'd just suddenly be there.  I mean, you wouldn't see him or hear him or anything, but when you needed him you'd just know that he was there.  At first I thought it was just wishful thinking, but then one time it happened to me.

"It was just after Chris was born.  We moved down from San Francisco the same week that Roy graduated from the fire academy.  We had to be out of our apartment up there by nine AM on Wednesday, but Roy had classes that whole day so I had to bring the last load down to L.A. by myself.  I was driving an old, beat-up sedan with the baby in the back seat and a rental trailer hooked onto the back.  I'd never driven on the freeway by myself before and I was terrified, especially because I had the baby with me.  I climbed behind the wheel and just sat there, shaking, and then all of a sudden . . .

"Grandpa was there in the passenger seat.  I can't even explain it, Johnny.  I didn't see him and I didn't hear him.  I didn't even smell his aftershave.  But he was there!  It was so powerful and so real and just like that I knew I was going to be okay and I wasn't scared anymore."

Johnny gave her a tiny smile.  "That's really sweet, Joanne.  I just wish that husband of yours would take the hint and give us a sign."

The twentieth day of silence . . . .

#-#- "Station 51.  Man down.  Terramar Canyon, five miles past Beacon Ranch Road.  Time out 17:31." #-#-

A guy on a dirt bike flagged them down.  "He's down there!  Can you see him?  He's down there!"

Cap jumped down from the engine and took the man's arm to steady him and calm him down.  "Okay, sir.  Can you please step back here?  Now, is this man a friend of yours?"

"Of mine?" he looked surprised.  "Uh uh.  I don't know him.  I just glanced down and there he was.  Are you gonna go down and see if he's dead or what?"

"We'll take care of everything.  Can you just wait over here, please?"

Leaving the witness in Mike Stoker's care, Cap joined Johnny, Chet, Marco and Fred at the edge of the ravine.  "Whadda we got, John?"

"Well, there's a guy down there."  Johnny pointed.  "See that bit of blue?  To the right, about thirty feet down?  It's almost hidden behind those bushes there."

Cap peered down for several seconds before finding it.  "Yeah, I got it."

"It's an arm, I think.  Can't see from here if he's breathing.  Doesn't seem to be moving at all."

"So, do you think he could be dead?" Fred asked nervously.

Johnny scanned the sky over the ravine.  "Well, there's no buzzards circling.  That's always a good sign."

Fred laughed, but the grin died on his lips when he looked at Johnny and saw that he was serious.  "Um . . . . ulp."

Johnny studied him.  "Whaddya think, Fred?  You want to go down and see if he's still alive?  I'll be your anchor and if he's alive I'll follow you down with the stokes and the equipment."

Fred swallowed hard.  "Yeah.  Sure.  Okay, I could do that."

"Are you sure?  Can you handle it?  Because if you don't think you can I need to know."

"No.  I can handle it.  I'm sure.  I'm okay."

"All right then.  Grab a belt and I'll get your line set up.  We need to hurry.  If he is alive he's gonna need all the time we can give him."

While Fred got into a climbing belt, Johnny tossed a line down into the ravine and anchored it around a sturdy tree.  Then he donned a belt of his own and readied a second line so he could follow quickly if need be.

"Chet, Marco?  You wanna get the stokes out and load it up with the equipment for me?"

Johnny took the end of Fred's line and braced himself against the tree, keeping his back to the edge as he acted as anchor.  Looking over his shoulder he watched the younger man bounding quickly down the slope.

"Fred!  Slow down!  Take it easy!  Slow down, I said!"  Even as the words left Johnny's mouth Fred lost his balance and tumbled head over heels down the slope, coming to rest against a small bush.  Johnny swore, released Fred's line and reached for his own.

"Don't move!  I'm coming down."

Mitchell twisted around and sat up.  "I'm fine, John!"

"That's a matter of opinion.  Dammit, I said don't move!"  Turning back to his other crewmates, John said, "anchor me, somebody?"

Marco stepped over to anchor him and Johnny swiftly but carefully made his way down the hill, pulling up to a halt beside his fallen partner.  "How do you feel?  Do you hurt anywhere?"

"No, Johnny!  I'm fine, I swear!"

Johnny took out a penlight and checked Fred's pupils, then made a quick survey of his arms and legs.  "All right, you were lucky.  Now listen to me.  When you're careless in an emergency situation, it isn't only your own health you're risking."  Oh, my God!  I'm turning into Roy!  Is that where he's gone, then?  "One, you can't help a victim when you're injured yourself.  Two, your injury can draw valuable resources away from the original rescue.  And three, in this particular case if you'd fallen another --" Johnny looked over his shoulder and estimated, "eight feet or so, you'd have landed right on top of the guy we're supposed to be here to help.  If he is still alive, I guarantee that's something he does not need.  Understand?"

Fred nodded, his face pale.  He was shaken more by the lecture than by the fall.  'I was harder on him than Roy was on me,' Johnny thought.  'Of course, I did get injured when I pulled that particular little stunt, so he probably felt sorry for me.  Besides, Roy always was the nice one.'

Johnny looked back up the slope.  "Somebody ready to anchor for Tumbling Tina here?"

"I got him, John!" Chet called back.

Johnny pulled himself up, then offered Fred a hand and helped him get his feet under him.  Together, moving more carefully, they covered the last few feet to their victim.

The man lay on his back, eyes closed and head fallen back.  His hair was long and so dusty and filthy that you couldn't tell what color it was.  His face was sunburned under a shaggy beard.  His pants were ripped and torn and his filthy shirt was in tatters and heavily stained with sweat and patches of brown that Johnny recognized as dried blood.  Johnny put a hand on his chest and felt the rise and fall of labored breaths.  "He's alive, Mitchell.  At least for now.  Talk to him.  See if you can get some kind of response."  Turning away, Johnny unhooked the HT from his belt and called up the slope.

"Engine 51, this is HT 51.  Victim is alive.  Send down the stokes and see if you can get us a helicopter."

"10-4, HT 51.  Engine 51 out."

Johnny went back to his victim assessment.  Using scissors from his belt pack, he cut away the man's shirt and equally torn and filthy undershirt and sheared open his pants legs.  "Fred, get the equipment.  Get him on oxygen and set up the biophone."  Fred moved to obey and Johnny sighed and took out his notebook and his lucky green pen.  It seemed as if everywhere he checked this guy there was something else wrong with him.  Johnny didn't want to overlook any injuries when he reported in.

"Rampart's on the line," Fred said.  "Do we have vitals yet?"

"We will when you get his BP.  Give me the phone."  Johnny took the phone.  "Rampart, this is rescue 51.  How do you read me?"

"Loud and clear.  Go ahead 51."  The voice belonged to Kelly Brackett.

"Rampart, we have a male, approximately thirty, 145 pounds.  He was found lying at the bottom of a ravine, about thirty feet down from the road.  At this time we don't know how long ago his injuries were sustained, nor exactly how, nor how long he's been lying here."  Johnny broke off as a thought struck him.  Two nights before there had been a torrential rainstorm and here among the heavy undergrowth the ground was still damp.  Very gently Johnny raised the victim, ran a hand underneath him and swore.  The earth where he lay was bone dry.

"Rampart, please be advised that the victim has been down here for at least forty-eight hours."

"Understood, 51."

"Rampart, victim is suffering from at least three broken ribs, with swelling, discoloration and rigidity in the upper abdomen.  Diminished lung sounds on both sides.  Compound fracture of the left tib-fib with infection present and beginning to spread.  Pupils equal but sluggish.  He is also febrile, sunburned, malnourished and significantly dehydrated.  Vitals are as follows:  pulse, 116; respiration 20 and shallow; blood pressure --" he broke off and looked to Fred.

"Eighty over forty."

"Eighty over forty," Johnny repeated.

"10-4, 51.  Start an IV with D5W, widebore, full open.  Draw a blood sample.  Splint the leg and take full spinal precautions.  Fifty-one, do you have an ambulance there yet?"

"Stand by, Rampart."  Johnny switched over to the HT.  "HT 51 to engine 51.  Cap?  Any word on that chopper?"

"10-4, HT 51.  Chopper is en route.  ETA is two minutes."

"10-4.  HT 51 out.  Rampart, this is rescue 51."

"Go ahead, 51."

"Rampart, we're bringing him in by helicopter."  In spite of his best efforts, Johnny's voice shook slightly.  There was a slight pause at the other end of the line.

"Understood, John," Brackett said, the rare on-channel use of his paramedic's first name offering both sympathy and understanding.  "Keep him well-ventilated, stay on his vitals and bring him in as soon as possible.  Rampart out."

Johnny was bent over the victim's arm, trying to find a vein that he could use, when Fred spoke again.  "I think he's starting to come around, Johnny."

"Good.  Talk to him.  Try to get him coherent."  It took both luck and skill, but Johnny got the IV started, then set the leg and laid out a longboard.  He could hear the patient mumbling now, his voice getting stronger as the oxygen and the liquid gave him a much-needed boost.

"Oh, great!" Fred exclaimed.  "I think he must be Russian or something."

"Why do you say that?"

"He just says, 'kepcha'."

Johnny considered it for a second, shook his head ruefully and summoned a faint grin for the victim.  "Sorry about that," he said.  "We hit all the lights."

The man made a feeble brushing motion towards his face and Fred lifted the oxygen mask again so he could talk.

". . . sirens're . . . for."  His voice was breathy and weak but audible.

"Is that so?"  Johnny tightened the last strap on the splint.  "And here I thought all those pretty flashing lights were just for decoration."

"Why I never . . . letcha . . . drive."

Johnny froze.  He literally felt his heart skip a beat and he didn't even realize he'd stopped breathing until his body took over and forced a gasp from him.  Slowly, ever so slowly, he raised his head and really looked, for the first time, at the man they were treating.  He looked past the tattered clothes, past the ragged beard and shaggy hair; he looked past the sunburn and into a pair of bright blue eyes that he had never thought to see again.

"Roy?!"

His partner's smile was weak and faint, but it was the brightest thing that John Gage had ever seen.  "Jun'r."

Johnny moved up by Roy's head and took his face in both hands, leaning in close to study him and reassure himself that he wasn't hallucinating.  "God," he whispered, and it was nothing less than a prayer.  Gently, careful not to move him at all, he leaned down and planted a kiss on the top of his best friend's shaggy head.  "You're alive," he choked out.  "Thank God!  You're alive!"

Johnny slipped a C-collar around Roy's neck, snugged up the oxygen mask and adjusted the flow.  "Just relax and take it easy now.  Everything is going to be fine."

The silence lifted.  Sound returned.

#-#-#-#-

Johnny snatched up the HT, not bothering to use correct hailing protocol.  "Cap!  Cap!  Get down here!  Come quick, Cap!"

One of the ropes snaking down the hillside shook violently and a couple of minutes later Cap arrived, out of breath, to find Johnny laughing and crying beside the victim while Fred sat back holding the IV bag up and looking confused.

"John . . . ?"

Johnny jumped up, put an arm around Cap's shoulder and squeezed.  "Look at him, Cap!  LOOK at him!"

Concerned that his senior paramedic was finally having a nervous breakdown, Captain Stanley dutifully turned to study the victim.  After a few seconds his eyes widened and his jaw dropped.

"Oh, my God!  It can't be!"

"I know!  But it is!"

"Are you . . . ?  Are you sure, John?  It isn't just someone who looks like him?"

While Cap was staring at Roy, Johnny had directed Fred to help him lift his injured friend so he could slip the board under him.  Now he was busy tightening the straps.  Finishing the last one, he lifted Roy's oxygen mask aside for just a second.

"Hi, Cap."

"Oh, my God!" Stanley said again.  A broad grin split his face.  "Welcome back, pal!"  He lifted his own radio and hailed the engine.  "HT 51 to engine 51."

"Go ahead, HT 51."

"Guys, grab ahold of something and listen up.  Our victim is Roy DeSoto!  He's alive!"

#-#-#-#-

It took careful handling, but soon the men of 51s had the stokes back up on the road and they gathered around briefly, each man needing to see for himself that the miracle was real.

"Jeez, Roy!  What is this?  The sasquatch look?" Chet teased.

"I don't understand," Marco wondered.  "How did he survive the crash?  Where has he been all this time?"

"I don't know," Johnny said.  "We'll ask him later."  The initial elation was beginning to sink down and mingle with fear.  Roy was alive, but he was hurt very badly and John knew that they could still lose him.  He didn't think he could survive it if that happened again.

"Did you tell the hospital who the patient is?" Mike asked.

Johnny finished taking a new set of vitals and stood to lift the stokes again.  "Nah.  Didn't figure they'd believe me.  We'll just wait and surprise them."

Mike, Marco and Chet hastened to help him carry the stokes over to the helicopter.  As they neared the bird, Johnny looked down and saw Roy gazing up at the aircraft with horror in his eyes.  They slid the stokes in and made it fast and Johnny jumped in beside it.  He leaned over his friend, so that their eyes met.

"I know!"  He shouted to make himself heard over the roar of the engine.  "I'm scared myself.  I can only imagine how you must feel.  But, Roy, we don't have time for anything else.  You heard your vitals.  I lost you once.  I'm not losing you again!"

Roy closed his eyes and swallowed.  Johnny wrapped his fingers around his partner's wrist in a rescue hold, the sort he would use when lifting someone from a ledge or chasm.  Roy's fingers wrapped around Johnny's wrist as well, completing the grasp.  His face beneath the sunburn was chalk white and he was trembling, but he voiced no complaint as they flew to Rampart.

#-#-#-#-

Kelly Brackett was standing at the nurses' station checking a chart when the doors flew open and John Gage and a pair of orderlies came in with a gurney.  He went to meet them, wondering at his paramedic's appearance.  John's eyes were red as if he'd been crying, but he was grinning like an idiot.

"Doc!" he called out.  "His vitals are getting a little bit better.  BP's up to 90 over 50 and his pulse is steady at 112."

"Okay, let's get him into 3."  He turned away, but Gage's voice stopped him.

"Well, Pally!  Doc's a busy man.  Can't even take time to say hi to an old friend."

Brackett turned back and stared at John.  Then he looked down at the gurney.  After a few seconds he did a double take.

Gage and the orderlies pushed the gurney past him into treatment room 3, leaving him standing stunned in the hallway.  Brackett shook himself.  "How?" he called out.

Johnny turned.  As impossible as it seemed, his smile grew even broader.  He gave a careless shrug.  "Don't know.  Don't care.  See?  I told you I'd know if he was dead!"

Brackett followed them into the room, his own grin building with every step.

#-#-#-#-

Dixie McCall returned from lunch to find the emergency room unusually quiet.  Dr. Morton was talking to a young mother down the hall, their easy posture telling her that the little girl sitting in the wheelchair with her arm in a cast was fine.  Fred Mitchell, the new trainee at 51s, was hovering uncertainly by the nurses' station, looking lost.  Dixie felt a stir of pity for the young man.  He was having to step into such very big shoes.

"Hello, Fred.  What brings you here?  Is Johnny in with a patient?"

"Yeah.  Um . . . ."

"What is it?"

"Miss McCall, Johnny's acting really weird."  In the three weeks he had worked at 51 Fred had come to know John Gage as solemn, quiet, soft-spoken and intense.  "I don't know what to do."

"Weird how, Fred?"

"Well, he knows the guy we brought in.  Everyone seems to."

"Who was it?"

"I didn't catch his name."

"Do you know what condition the man is in?"  Dixie's heart went out to John Gage.  The last thing he needed was to lose another friend.

"They just said he's critical but stable.  They're getting him ready to take up to surgery.  Johnny came out and used the radio to call the engine and tell them."

"Oh, well . . . ."  Before Dixie could think of anything to say the doors burst open to admit 51s engine crew.  Chet Kelly and Marco Lopez were dancing around like mad men and Mike Stoker -- Dixie blinked twice, not believing her eyes.  Mike Stoker had Joanne DeSoto slung over one shoulder in a fireman's carry.  Everyone was talking at once and Dixie's head nurse instincts took over.

"Gentlemen!  You settle down and be quiet this instant.  Need I remind you that this is a hospital?  Have you lost your minds?"

The door to treatment room three opened and Johnny Gage came out.  His smile was luminous.  His eyes were glowing.  Mike Stoker dropped Joanne into his arms and he spun her in circles while she sobbed and said, over and over again, "is it true, Johnny?  Is it?  Is it really and truly true?"

"You see?" Fred said to Dixie.  "I told you he was acting weird."

Kelly Brackett appeared at the treatment room door.  "We need to get this guy up to surgery, Joanne.  You want to come give him a kiss for luck first?"

Johnny set her down.  Staggering dizzily, she made her way to the doorway and Dr. Brackett helped her inside.  Dixie looked to Johnny Gage for information, not daring to believe the insane thoughts that were running through her head.

"Johnny . . . ?"

A couple of heartbeats later she found herself in his arms, in a crushing hug.  He finally let up enough to drag her over to the open doorway.  She looked in and saw Roy DeSoto lying on the treatment table.  He looked like hell.  He was thin and ragged, deathly pale where he wasn't sunburned enough to blister and his bare chest and stomach were mottled purple-black with ugly bruises.  He was tethered to two IVs, a heart monitor and a ventilator, his leg was splinted and he was still strapped to a long board.

He was alive and Dixie thought he must be the most beautiful sight she'd ever seen.

Roy's eyes roamed around the room and settled on Dixie. One corner of his mouth quirked up ever so slightly and he winked at her.  Dixie raised the back of her hand to her mouth and choked back a sob.

"I don't understand."

"We don't either, Miss McCall," Hank Stanley told her.  "We responded to a man down up in the canyons and it was Roy."

Before she could think of a response John Gage grabbed her again, spun her around and kissed her passionately on the mouth.  When he let her up he was grinning like a maniac.  "My partner's alive," he said.  "I get to kiss all the pretty girls in the hospital."  Too dazed to stop him, Dixie watched him charge down the hall.  By the time he disappeared around the corner he had kissed two nurses, an elderly lady being wheeled along on a gurney, and the mother and little girl that Dr. Morton was talking to, each time repeating his explanation.

Brackett looked up at the firemen hovering in the doorway.  "One of you guys go catch that idiot before I have to have him sedated.  The rest of you find a waiting room.  Sit.  Stay.  Dixie, you want to give us a hand here?"

"Oh, you bet I do!"

"Joanne, I'm sorry, but . . . ."

"I understand."  She leaned down and dropped another kiss on her husband's cheek.  "Sweetheart, I'll be right here when you wake up.  I love you.  Just remember that.  I love you.  Okay?"

By the time the room was empty of visitors Dixie had checked Roy's vitals and glanced at his chart.  Dismayed at his condition, she lay a hand on Brackett's arm.  "Kel?  Is he really going to make it?"

The doctor answered her with a conviction that was born of nothing but raw faith.  "You better believe he is, Dix!  I'm not settling for anything less than a complete recovery."  He turned to his patient.  "You hear me, hose jockey?  I expect a full recovery, or else!"

Bound by IV tubes and gagged by the ventilator, Roy could answer only with his eyes but his eyes spoke volumes.

#-#-#-#-

Surgery was touch and go and afterwards Roy remained in critical condition for almost three days.  It was another two days before he was moved out of ICU and nearly a week before he felt strong enough to finally tell his story.  Johnny and Joanne sat beside him and Brackett stayed to monitor his condition while he spoke with the FAA investigator who had been waiting impatiently since he was first found.

"What I'd like for you to do, Mr. DeSoto," the investigator said, "is just start at the beginning and tell me in your own words what happened."

"If you're asking me why the helicopter crashed, that's something I just can't tell you," Roy began.  "There were four of us on board.  Me, the victim, the pilot and the co-pilot.  The victim -- he was just a kid, you know?  He'd ridden his dirt bike off a cliff and we had to lift him off with the chopper.  There was no room for them to land, so they hovered just off the ledge we were on and Johnny and I slid the stokes aboard and then I climbed on after."  His eyes found Johnny's.  "He'd have made it, John.  You know that?  If I could have gotten him here, I'm sure he would have pulled through okay."

Johnny squeezed his partner's shoulder.  "It wasn't your fault, Pally.  There wasn't any part of this that was your fault."

Roy closed his eyes briefly, then nodded and resumed his story.  "I think the pilot started having problems right away.  The co-pilot was there helping us get the kid on board, but then as soon as I was in he disappeared.  He didn't even stop to slide the door closed, and I was too busy with the victim to do it.  It seemed to take too long to gain altitude, but then we did and we seemed to fly along fine for several minutes.  Then there was a kind of thump and an odd, grating sound and the whole helicopter started shuddering.  I could hear the pilot and co-pilot shouting back and forth, but I couldn't tell what they were saying.  Something about the rudder and the stabilizer.  I leaned over to check that the stokes were secure and then . . . ."

The heart monitor Roy was still hooked to sounded an alarm and Roy's face grew pale.  Johnny reached over to silence the alarm as Brackett came to sit on the side of the bed and check over his patient.  "Are you okay?  You can stop now if you want to."

Roy shook his head.  "No, it's okay.  Stopping won't help anything.  I'm sorry.  I'm okay.  It's just . . . this is the part that gives me nightmares," he admitted, embarrassed.  His friends waited patiently while he gathered his thoughts.  Finally he continued.  "I leaned over to check that the stokes were secure and all at once the helicopter just pitched over onto its side.  I rolled over backwards and went right out the open side door.

"As I fell past, I grabbed for something to hold onto and I happened to catch a canvas strap.  I didn't realize it at the time, but it was the handle on a canvas bag that was stowed next to the door.  It held for a few seconds while I dangled from the helicopter, holding onto that strap for my life.  The chopper was climbing again.  There was a cliff behind me -- it seemed like it was only inches away -- and nothing at all beneath my feet.  I remember looking down and seeing the tops of clouds.  Then the helicopter started spinning and the bag came loose in my hand.  I went flying through the air, still holding onto this stupid bag, fully expecting to die when I landed.

"Somehow, though, I hit a high ridge after falling only about ten or fifteen feet.  I rolled down a hill and into a ravine.  There was a horrible crash and a tremendous explosion.  The last thing I remember is all the trees along the edge of the ravine falling down and blocking out the sky.

"Afterwards I was in and out for I don't know how long.  One time, John, one time when I woke up I could have sworn I heard you calling me."

"That was the day after the accident," Johnny told him.  "We all went out to the crash site. I just couldn't believe you were gone and I stood on the ridge and shouted for you until Chet and Marco dragged me away."

"I tried to answer," his partner said, "but I couldn't get any sound to come out.  Then I must have blacked out again.  When I finally woke up for real it was raining."

"That would have been the third day after the crash," the FAA investigator offered.  "We were still out there.  Didn't you hear us?  Or see us?"

"I was still down in that ravine, completely boxed in by fallen trees.  But, no, I didn't see or hear anyone.  The canvas bag from the helicopter had fallen into the ravine with me and that turned out to be a piece of real luck.  It was an emergency survival kit, with some first aid gear and a bunch of packets of army K-rations.  The first aid stuff was pretty basic and not a lot of help, but the food was a lifesaver.  I ate something -- I couldn't even begin to guess what it was supposed to be -- and drank some water from a puddle and then I started crawling along the ravine, looking for a way out.  Eventually it opened up on the side of a hill.  Dragging the sack of K-rations with me, I went looking for civilization.

"After that it's a pretty boring story.  I'd hurt my leg when I fell -- along with a bunch of other stuff -- and I couldn't really walk.  I made a crutch out of a fallen branch, but it didn't really help and I probably crawled as much as I walked.  The days and nights all blurred together.  I was hallucinating a lot, I know.  It was hurting more and more and there were lots of times I was ready to give up, but then," he looked to his wife, "then, Jo, I'd see your face, and the kids, and I knew I couldn't let you down.  And a couple of times, Johnny, I could have sworn I heard your voice.  Once you were singing 'Fire and Rain' and one time you said --," he broke off and shook his head.  "It doesn't matter.  Didn't make any sense anyway."

"Said what?" Johnny persisted.

"You said, 'Fred listens to you just about as well as I always have.'"  Roy chuckled and shook his head.  "Anyway, I just kept on going west.  I knew that if I kept going towards the ocean, sooner or later I'd find some help.  Finally I saw a road running along the top of the little box canyon I'd wandered into.  I ate the last package of K-rations that morning and left the bag behind.  The canyon wall was steep and I went up it on my hands and knees.  I was just about done in, but I thought that it was almost over and that gave me the strength to keep climbing.  But just when I thought I'd made it I lost my grip and fell back down.  I could feel things breaking inside me as I tumbled down the hillside.  When I finally stopped falling I could hardly breathe and I couldn't move at all.  I knew then that I was finished, so I just lay there and waited to die.

"And, well, you know the rest of the story."

"And a remarkable story it is, too," the FAA investigator said, turning off his tape recorder and coming over to the bed to shake Roy's hand.  "Thank you for your time, Mr. DeSoto.  You're pretty remarkable yourself and it's been an honor to meet you."

Roy blushed, shy as ever.  "All I did was fall out of a helicopter.  The rest was just dumb luck."

"All you did," Brackett corrected him, "was refuse to die.  And luck had nothing to do with it."

#-#-#-#-

Ten weeks later.

Roy arrived early for his first shift back, but his partner was still there before him, sitting in the kitchen drinking coffee with C-shift.  Johnny scooted over to make room for him and he joined them at the table.  Johnny already had a clean cup waiting and he poured Roy some coffee from the pot on the table.

"So, Dwyer, how do you like your new partner?" Roy asked.

Dwyer lifted his cup to salute Fred Mitchell.  "Oh, I think he'll do."

"Well I should hope so," Johnny said.  "After all, he was trained by the best, you know!"

"Yeah," Dwyer shot back.  "I heard Roy's been giving him a lot of advice."

Johnny laughed good-naturedly.  During the past two and a half months he had made it a point to drag Fred to visit his partner as often as possible.  The hours spent re-hashing runs and discussing decisions and procedures had served two purposes.  It had given Mitchell the benefit of Roy's experience and it had helped to distract Roy and keep him entertained during a long, slow recovery period that was alternately boring and painful.

"Johnny's a good trainer," Roy said, in defense of his partner.  "Just remember what he taught you, Fred, and you'll do fine."

"I will," Fred promised.  "In fact, I've already started to put some of his lessons to use."

At that moment Chet Kelly came in.  "Roy!  Hi!  Welcome back!"

"Thanks, Chet.  It's good to be back."

"It's good to have you!  Although I must admit that I'm going to miss Mitchell."  Chet sighed theatrically.  "The Phantom has enjoyed having two pigeons."  He opened the cupboard to get a cup and, with a familiar sproing, a fountain of ice-cold liquid shot out and doused him.  "Auggghhh!"  He sniffed at his sopping shirt.  "Orange juice?  Orange juice!?!  Very funny, Gage!"

Johnny spread his hands in an "I'm innocent" gesture.  Glaring at him, Chet stalked over and pulled open a drawer to get a dishtowel.  Sproing!  "Augghh!"  Chet recoiled from the cloth-covered spring snake that jumped out at him.  "Oh, ha. Ha."  Abandoning the drawer, he yanked open another cupboard where paper towels and cleaning supplies were kept.  Pouf!  He got hit by a cloud of -- he rubbed it between his fingers -- "corn meal?"

In a high dudgeon, Chet stalked out of the kitchen.  "I think I'm going to like C-shift," Fred said to no one in particular.

Johnny leaned close to Roy and draped an arm over his partner's shoulders.  "We wanted to do something special for your first day back," he said.  "Mike Stoker's making spaghetti for dinner and later we're going to have a cake."

From the locker room they heard a distant sproing!   "Auggghhh!  Maple syrup!?!"

Roy gave his friend a shy smile, his face pink with embarrassment and pleasure.  "You didn't need to go to any trouble."

"I know.  But we wanted to."  (Sploosh!  "Auggghh!"  The clang of a falling bucket.)  "It's been way too quiet around here without you."

The end.

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