First Responder On Call. Melinda Di Lorenzo

       Chapter 1

      The buzz came first. A hundred—no, a thousand—bees, circling her head and making it vibrate with an indescribable pain. Next came the stinging. Over and over, the sharp points hitting her face, each one worse than the last.

      If she could’ve made a noise, it would’ve been a whimper.

      She tried to turn her head, to steer it away from the angry swarm. But she was clamped down. Something viselike held her in place, stopping her from even the slightest movement. All she could do was blink, and even that yielded little more than a blurred picture overhead. She wasn’t even sure what it was she could see above her. The night sky, maybe? A dark swirl of clouds, blocking out every star and barely letting through the moonlight?

       Typical Vancouver.

      The thought temporarily overrode the pain, probably because it was something concrete. Something that grounded her. Yes, the muted gray tone definitely embodied the city’s weather. Even in mid-July, a rainstorm like this one could be expected. It was usually a small sacrifice to make in exchange for being wedged between the Pacific Ocean and a half a dozen mountain ranges. But right now, it gave her a chill.

       The rain...

      It’s what beat down on her face, the source of the sting. She blinked again. A string of wires—power lines, she thought—came into focus.

       The buzz...

      The vicious drops were hitting the wires as well, and the zap of water on live electricity filled the air.

       The accident...

      A flood of memory came rushing to the forefront of her mind. It was disjointed, like the pieces of a puzzle that had been scattered across a table. But it was memory nonetheless.

      The storm, rushing in from nowhere.

      The road, slick beneath her tires.

      The slam of...something.

      Then the horrible sound of metal on metal.

      And blackness.

      The buzz and the sting were muted now, taking a back seat to the struggle to remember anything else. What kind of car had she been driving? What was the source of the anxious pressure in her chest? And most important...what was her name?

       Oh, God.

      She didn’t know. She couldn’t recall it, even though when she dropped her lids closed, she could picture her own face. She could see the swirl of her ash-blond hair and the overwhelming number of freckles that dotted her complexion. Her gray eyes and fair lashes were there, too, well above the surface of whatever blocked the rest.

       Please let me remember. And please...someone help me.

      As though her silent plea willed it