Donna Fleisher - Wounded Healer

P RECIOUS L ORD G OD, Y OU HAVE a purpose for this story. You've humbled me by allowing me to be the one to tell it. Thank You so much. And thank You for all those who encouraged and strengthened me along the way. Especially...

M OM AND D AD. T HEY WERE patient as I climbed my steps of faith.

Chris and Thess. Always supportive. Always there for me.

Christine. She was the first to read my stuff. And she didn't laugh. Thank You, Lord, for my precious family.

And Mario too. Yes, he's just a dog, but he oozes unconditional love. Like You.

Lord, please bless Karen Ball and Diane Noble and everyone at Zondervan. They are all the best. Thank You for their hard work. Please accept our offering and do with it as You will.

Thank You for everyone at the 2004 Mount Hermon Christian Writers Conference. Your perfect timing put me there. Thank You for the way You use so many people at conferences to work out Your perfect plan.

And please bless everyone in Oregon Christian Writers. This group, Lord, means so much to me. Thank You for their encouragement and sound teaching all these years.

For Shannon and Susie and Vickie and Heather and Melisa and Trish and Steph and June and all their beautiful families, Lord, thank You so much. I love them all. Thank You for Maddie and Alisabeth. Keep their friendship strong. Thank You, Lord, for Brooke. And for Margaret Becker. And for Gayle Erwin.

And Lord? Thank You for everyone at the Sandcastle. You put me there. They have put up with me. Surround them with Your peace, and touch them with Your love. Thank You, Lord, for my home.

Oh, and one more thing. Please tell everyone at Fort Campbell, Kentucky, that yes, I do know their division has only three brigades. I took some liberties and expanded their design a bit to fit my needs. I hope they can forgive me. It was an incredible honor to borrow them for this story. For everything they did to ensure certain victory during Desert Storm (and for everything they are doing right now), please make sure they know how grateful I am. How grateful we all are. They are awesome. They are Airborne!

C HRISTINA M C I NTYRE . G OOD . S HE STILL knew her own name.

Arms, legs, fingers, and --She wiggled her toes. Good. Still intact.

She opened her eyes slowly, blinking carefully, trying to focus.

The cabin. Timmons Trail. She knew where she was.

Why was she on the floor? She started to lift up but froze as a bolt of agony ripped through her front to back, top to bottom. Breath stuck in her throat as her eyes pinched shut; she fell back and for a full minute did not move.

This...is not a dream. I'm really hurt. How? What happened?

Cold darkness surrounded her. Night had fallen.

This...is not good. I am so late.

Her breath came in puffs. Sharp stabs knifed deep through her right side with each new breath, as fear trickled into her blood. Carefully, she brought her hands around to check the damage.

Her hands were bare. Both of them. Where were her gloves? Her fingers ached with cold. It didn't make any sense. So cold, all over. The long-sleeved thermal shirt she wore under her bright red San Juan Search and Rescue jacket usually kept her warm enough, even on the coldest nights.

Her jacket was gone.

Panic swelled inside her, stealing her breath, returning it only in short gasps. Pain split through her with every breath. She reached her left hand around to feel for damage. She winced. If ribs weren't broken inside her, they were cracked. She cautiously lifted her hand and felt the back of her head. The lump she found there triggered a rush of rote emergency procedure through her mind. Blunt force trauma to the head--loss of consciousness, moderate duration--contusion, severe swelling, possible con --She forced it all away, silently mumbling, Yeah, yeah, yeah. She lowered her hand. I'll survive. Just...breathe.

Too cold. She needed her gloves, her jacket. How could they possibly be gone? She'd freeze if she didn't find them--she needed them; why would she take them off?

She needed her flashlight. In the deepening darkness, she could tell the door of the cabin was open wide. Did I come through the door and fall? I tripped over the door stop? One of the table chairs lay on its side by her feet. Did she knock it over as she fell? Did she fall on top of it? That could explain possible broken ribs. And then she hit her head on the floor and passed out? Had she always been this clumsy?

Closing her eyes, she wanted to sleep. She could have slept, if it wasn't for the nagging stabs in her side.

She needed help. This irritated her. She hated even the thought of it--the rescuer needed rescuing. Because she tripped over her own big feet. The guys would love this. They'd want to haul her out on a litter just to embarrass her. She cringed.

But tonight, and soon, if someone didn't help her down off this mountain, she didn't think she would make it home.

That's just great. And we were supposed to go out tonight. Mexican with Travis. Her stomach churned and she groaned. That would be the last straw, throwing up all over the floor of the cabin.

Get up and get to the radio. Nothing to it. Every cabin in the San Juan District Three Search and Rescue region had a radio. If she could just stand up. Maybe she should light the kerosene lamp first. She needed to find her jacket.

If she could just stand up.

Grunting, panting, squeezing tears from her eyes, hoping no one was watching or listening to her pathetic display, she forced herself up and steadied herself against the table. That was it for a few minutes; quelling the dizziness and drawing in simple breaths had become all she cared about in the world.