Nicholas Sparks This book is dedicated with love to Pat and Billy Mills

The cab of the tanker had rolled up onto the back of the Honda, completely crushing the rear, before smashing through the wire barrier that lined the bridge. In the midst of the accident, the driver had locked the wheel as he�d slammed on the brakes, and the truck had whipsawed across both lanes of the road, completely blocking both directions. The car, pinned beneath the front of the cab, hung off the bridge like a diving board from its flattened rear tires, balanced precariously in a downward position. Its roof had been torn open, like a partially opened can, as it ripped through the cable along the side of the bridge. The only thing that kept the Honda from falling into the river some eighty feet below was the weight of the tanker�s cab, and the cab itself looked far from stable.

Its engine was smoking badly, and fluid was leaking steadily onto the Honda beneath, spreading a shiny veneer over the hood.

When Mitch saw Taylor, he came rushing forward to fill Taylor in, getting straight to business.

�The driver of the truck�s all right, but there�s still someone in the car. Man or woman, we can�t tell yet-whoever it is is slumped over.�

�What about the tanks on that truck?�

�Three-quarters full.�

Smoking engine . . . leaking over the car . . .

�If that cab explodes, will the tanks go with it?�

�The driver says that it shouldn�t if the lining wasn�t damaged in the accident. I didn�t see a leak, but I can�t be sure.�

Taylor looked around, adrenaline coursing through his system. �We gotta get these people out of here.�

�I know, but they�re bumper to bumper right now, and I just got here a couple of minutes ago myself. I haven�t had a chance.�

Two fire trucks arrived-the pumper and the hook and ladder, their red lights circling the area, and seven men jumped out before they�d come to a complete stop. Already in their fire-retardant suits, they took one look at the situation, started barking orders, and went for the hoses. Having come to the scene without going by the firehouse first, Mitch and Taylor scrambled for the suits that had been brought for them. They slipped them over their clothing with practiced ease.

Carl Huddle had arrived; so did an additional two police officers from the town of Edenton. After a quick consultation they turned their attention to the cars on the bridge. A bullhorn was retrieved from the trunk; gawkers were ordered to get back behind the wheel to vacate the area. The two other officers-in Edenton it was one officer per car-went in opposite directions, toward the end of the lines of the cars backed up on the highway. The final car in the line got the first order:

�You�ve got to back up or turn around now. We�ve got a serious situation on the bridge.�

�How far?�

�Half a mile.�

The first driver spoken to hesitated, as if trying to decide if it really was necessary.

�Now!� the officer barked.

Taylor speculated that half a mile was just about enough distance to create a zone of safety, but even so, it would take a while for every car to move far enough away.

Meanwhile the truck was smoking more heavily.

Ordinarily the fire department would hook up hoses to the nearest fire hydrant in order to draw all the water they need. On the bridge, however, there were no hydrants. Thus the pumper truck would provide the only water available. It was plenty for the cab of the truck, but nowhere near enough to control the fire if the tanker exploded.

Controlling the fire would be critical; helping the trapped passenger, however, was foremost in people�s minds.

But how to reach the passenger? Ideas were shouted as everyone prepared for the inevitable.

Climb out over the cab to reach the person? Use a ladder and crawl out? Run a cable somehow and swing in?

No matter what course of action they chose, the problem remained the same-all were fearful of putting any extra weight on the car itself. It was a wonder that it was still there at all, and jostling the car or adding weight might be enough to cause it to tip. When a blast of water from the hose was aimed toward the cab, their fears-everyone suddenly realized-were justified.

The water gushed violently toward the engine in the cab of the truck, then cascaded inside the shattered back windshield of the Honda at the rate of five hundred gallons per minute, partially filling the car�s interior. It then flowed with gravity toward the engine, out of the passenger area. Within moments water began to rush out from the front grill. The nose of the car dipped slightly, raising the cab of the truck-then rose again. The firemen manning the hose saw the ravaged car teetering in the balance and without a second to spare turned the hose away, toward the open air, before shutting it down.

To a man, their faces had gone white.

Water was still pouring from the front of the car. There had been no movement from the passenger within.

�Let�s use the ladder on the truck,� Taylor urged. �We�ll extend it out over the car and use the cable to haul the person out.�

The car continued to rock, seemingly of its own accord.

�It might not support the two of you,� Joe said quickly. As the chief, he was the only full-time employee of the fire department; it was his job to drive one of the trucks, and he was always the calming influence in a crisis like this.

It was obvious he had a point. Because of the angle of the wreck and the relatively narrow width of the bridge, the hook and ladder couldn�t approach to within an ideal distance. From where it could be parked, the ladder would have to extend out over the car to the side the passenger was on, an extension of at least an additional twenty feet. Not much if the ladder was at an angle-but because it would have to be positioned nearly horizontally out over the river, it would test the limits of what was safe.

Had it been a new-model fire truck, it probably wouldn�t have been a problem. Edenton�s hook and ladder was one of the oldest operating models in the state, however, and it had originally been purchased with the knowledge that the tallest building in town was only three stories. The ladder wasn�t designed to be used in a situation like this.

�What other choice do we have? I�ll be out and back before you know it,� Taylor said.

Joe had almost expected him to volunteer. Twelve years ago, during Taylor�s second year with the crew, Joe had asked him why he was always the first to volunteer for the riskiest assignments. Though risks were part of the job, unnecessary risks were something else, and Taylor had struck him as a man with something to prove. Joe didn�t want someone like that behind him-not because he didn�t trust Taylor to get him out of trouble, but because he didn�t want to risk his own life saving someone who tested fate unnecessarily.

But Taylor offered a simple explanation:

�My dad died when I was nine, and I know what it�s like for a kid to grow up alone. I don�t want that to happen to anyone else.�

Not that the others didn�t risk their lives, of course. Everyone involved with the fire department accepted the risks with open eyes. They knew what might happen, and there had been dozens of occasions where Taylor�s offer had been declined.

But this time . . .

�All right,� Joe said with finality. �You�re on the point, Taylor. Now let�s get to it.�

Because the hook and ladder was facing forward, it had to be backed off the bridge, then onto the grass median to reach the best possible position. Once the truck was off the bridge, the driver of the fire truck moved the truck back and forth three times before he was able to reverse toward the wreck again. By the time the truck was in position, seven minutes had elapsed.

In that seven minutes the engine in the truck continued to smoke heavily. Small flames were now visible in the area beneath it, licking out, scorching the rear of the Honda. The flames looked awfully close to the gas tanks, but spraying the hose wasn�t an option anymore, and they couldn�t get close enough with the fire extinguishers to make a difference.

Time was running out, and all anyone could do was watch.

While the truck was moving into position, Taylor collected the rope he needed and attached it to his own harness with a clip. When the truck was in place, Taylor climbed up and secured the other end of the rope to the ladder a few rungs from the end. A cable, much longer, was also run from the rear of the hook and ladder up to the ladder itself. Attached to the hook at the far end of the cable was a soft, well-padded safety harness. Once the safety harness was secured around the passenger, the cable would slowly be rewound, lifting the passenger out.

As the ladder began to extend, Taylor lay on his belly, his mind clicking. Keep balanced . . . stay as far back on the ladder as possible . . . when the time comes, lower quickly but carefully . . . don�t touch the car . . .

But the passenger occupied most of his thoughts. Was the person trapped? Could he be moved without risking further injury? Would it be possible to get him out without the car tipping over?

The ladder continued to snake outward, close to the car now. There were still ten or twelve feet to go, and Taylor felt the ladder growing a little unsteady, creaking beneath him, like an old barn in a windstorm.

Eight feet. He was close enough now to reach out and touch the front of the truck.

Six feet.

Taylor could feel the heat from the small flames, could see them lapping at the mangled roof of the car. As the ladder extended, it began to rock slightly.

Four feet. He was over the car now . . . getting close to the front windshield.

Then the ladder came to a rattling halt. Still lying on his belly, Taylor looked back over his shoulder when it stopped, to see if some glitch had occurred. But by the expressions on the other firemen�s faces, he knew that the ladder was extended as far as it would go and that he was going to have to make do.

The ladder wobbled precariously as he untied the rope that held his own harness. Grabbing the other harness for the passenger, he began inching forward, toward the edge of the ladder, taking advantage of the last three rungs. He needed them now to position himself over the windshield and lower himself in order to reach the passenger.

Despite the chaos surrounding him, as he crawled forward he was struck by the improbable beauty of the evening. Like a dream, the night sky had opened before him. The stars, the moon, the wispy clouds . . . over there, a firefly in the evening sky. Eighty feet below, the water was the color of coal, as black as time yet somehow trapping the light of the stars. He could hear himself breathing as he moved forward; he could feel his heart thudding in his chest. Beneath him, the ladder bounced and shuddered with every movement.

He slid forward like a soldier in the grass, clinging to the cold metal rungs. Behind him, the last of the cars were backing off the bridge. In the deathly silence Taylor could hear the flames licking beneath the truck, and without warning the car beneath him started to rock.

The nose of the car dipped slightly and straightened, then dipped again before righting itself. There was no wind at all. In the split second he noticed it, he heard a low moan, the sound muffled and almost impossible to decipher.

�Don�t move!� Taylor shouted instinctively.

The moan grew louder, and the Honda started to rock in earnest.

�Don�t move!� Taylor shouted again, his voice full of desperation, the only sound in the darkness. All else was still. A bat brushed by in the night air.

He heard the moan again, and the car tilted forward, its nose dipping toward the river before righting itself once more.

Taylor moved quickly. He secured his rope on the final rung, tying the knot as deftly as any sailor. Pulling his legs forward, he squeezed through the rungs, doing his best to move as fluidly and slowly as possible while staying in the harness. The ladder rocked like a teeter-totter, groaning and creaking, bouncing as if it would break in two. He settled himself as firmly as he could, almost as if he were on a swing. This was as good a position as he would get. Holding on to the rope with one hand, he reached downward toward the passenger with the other, gradually testing the ladder�s strength. Pushing through the windshield to the dashboard, he saw that he was too high, but he caught sight of the person he was trying to save.

A male in his twenties or thirties, about the same size he was. Seemingly incoherent, he was struggling in the wreckage, causing the car to rock violently. The passenger�s movement was a double-edged sword, Taylor realized. It meant that he could probably be removed from the car without risk of spinal injury; it also meant that his movement might tip the car.

His mind racing, Taylor reached above him to the ladder and grabbed the safety harness, then pulled it toward him. With the sudden movement, the ladder bounced up and down like marbles on the pavement. The cable grew tight.

�More cable!� he shouted, and a moment later he felt it pick up slack and he began to lower it. Once it was in position, he shouted for them to stop. He unhooked one end of the safety harness so that he could try to work it around the man�s body and reattach it.

He bent down again but saw with frustration that he still couldn�t reach the man. He needed another couple of feet.

�Can you hear me?� Taylor called into the car. �If you can understand what I�m saying, answer me.�

He heard the moan again, and though the passenger shifted, it was obvious that he was semiconscious at best.

The flames beneath the truck suddenly flared and intensified.

Gritting his teeth, Taylor shifted his grip on the rope to the lowest spot he could, then stretched for the passenger again. Closer this time-he could reach past the dash-but the passenger was still out of reach.

Taylor heard the others calling from the bridge.

�Can you get him out of there?� Joe shouted.

Taylor evaluated the scene. The front of the car seemed to be undamaged, and the man was unbuckled, lying half on the seat, half on the floor beneath the steering wheel, wedged in but looking as if he could be pulled out through the sheared opening of the roof. Taylor cupped his free hand around his mouth, shouting so that his voice could be heard:

�I think so. The windshield�s completely blown out, and the roof is wide open. There�s enough room for him to come up, and I can�t see anything holding him.�

�Can you reach him?�

�Not yet,� he called back. �I�m close, but I can�t get the harness around him. He�s incoherent.�

�Hurry up and do what you can,� came Joe�s anxious voice. �From here it looks like the engine fire�s getting worse.�

But Taylor already knew that. The truck was radiating extreme heat now, and he heard strange popping noises coming from within. Sweat began to drip down his face.

Bracing himself, Taylor once again grasped the rope and stretched himself, his fingertips this time grazing the unconscious man�s arm through the shattered windshield. The ladder was bouncing, and he tried to extend his reach with every bounce. Still inches away.

Suddenly, as if in a nightmare, he heard a loud whooshing sound, and flames suddenly exploded from the engine of the truck, leaping toward Taylor. He pulled up, covering his face instinctively as the flames receded toward the truck again.

�You okay?� Joe shouted.

�I�m fine!�

No time for any plans, no time to debate. . . .

Taylor reached for the cable and pulled it toward him. Stretching his toes, he worked the hook that held the safety harness until it was centered beneath his boot. Then, supporting his weight with his foot, he lifted himself slightly and unhooked his own harness from his support rope.

Holding on for dear life, with only one small point in the center of his boot supporting him, he slid his hands down the cable until he was almost crouching. Now low enough to reach the passenger, he let go of the cable with one hand and reached for the safety harness. He had to work it around the passenger�s chest, beneath his arms.

The ladder was bouncing hard now. Flames began to sear the roof of the Honda, only inches from his head. Rivulets of sweat poured into his eyes, blurring his vision. Adrenaline surged through his limbs. . . .

�Wake up!� he shouted, his voice hoarse with panic and frustration. �You�ve got to help me here!�

The passenger moaned again, his eyes flickering open. It wasn�t enough.

With flames spitting toward him, Taylor grabbed for the man, yanking hard on his arm.

�Help me, damnit!� Taylor screamed.

The man, finally awakened by some flicker of self-preservation, raised his head slightly.

�Put the harness under your arm!�

He didn�t seem to understand, but the new angle of his body presented an opportunity. Taylor immediately worked one end of the harness toward the man�s arm-the one lying across the seat-then slipped it underneath.

One down.

All the while, he kept on screaming, his cries growing even more desperate.

�Help me! Wake up! We�re almost out of time here!�

The flames were gaining strength, and the ladder was bouncing dangerously.

Again the man moved his head-not much, not nearly enough. The man�s other arm, wedged between his body and the steering wheel, looked stuck. Without worrying what might happen now, Taylor shoved the body, the force making him sway. The ladder dipped precariously, as did the car. The nose began pointing toward the river.

Somehow, however, the shove was enough. This time the man opened his eyes and began to struggle out from between the steering wheel and the seat. The car was rocking heavily now. Weakly the passenger freed his other arm, then raised it slightly as he tried to crawl onto the seat. Taylor worked the safety harness around him. His hand sweaty on the cable, he attached the free end of the harness, completing the circle, then cinched it tight.

�We�re gonna pull you out now. We�re almost out of time.�

The man simply rolled his head, suddenly drifting into unconsciousness again, but Taylor could see that the path was finally clear.

�Bring him up!� he screamed. �Passenger is secure!�

Taylor worked his hands up the cable until he was in a standing position. The firefighters slowly began to unwind the cable, careful not to jerk it for fear of the stress it would put on the ladder.

The cable tightened, and the ladder began to groan and shudder. But instead of the passenger coming up, the ladder seemed to be lowering.

Lowering . . .

Oh, crap . . .

Taylor could feel it on the verge of buckling, then they both began to rise.

Up an inch. Then another.

Then, with nightmarish deliberateness, the cable stopped recoiling. Instead the ladder began to descend again. Taylor knew instantly that the ladder couldn�t support both of them.

�Stop!� he shouted. �The ladder�s gonna go!�

He had to get off the cable, and he had to get off the ladder. After making sure once more that the man wouldn�t get snagged, he reached for the ladder rungs above him. Then he carefully removed his foot from the hook, letting his legs dangle free, praying that the additional jostling wouldn�t break the ladder in two.

He decided to go hand over hand across the ladder, like a kid crossing the monkey bars. One rung . . . two . . . three . . . four. The car was no longer beneath him, yet he could still feel the ladder creeping lower.

It was while he was crossing the rungs that the flames ripped into a frenzy, straining with deadly intensity at the gas tanks. He�d seen engine fires numerous times-and this one was seconds away from blowing.

He looked toward the bridge. As if in slow motion, he saw the firemen, his friends, motioning frantically with their arms, screaming at him to hurry, to get off the ladder, to get to safety before the truck exploded. But he knew that there was no way he could make it back to the truck in time and still get the passenger out.

�Pull him out!� Taylor shouted hoarsely. �He�s got to come up now!�

Dangling high above the water, he loosened his grip, then let go completely. In an instant he was swallowed by the evening air.

The river was eighty feet below.

�That was the dumbest, most moronic thing I�ve ever seen you do,� Mitch said matter-of-factly. It was fifteen minutes later, and they were sitting on the banks of the Chowan River. �I mean, I�ve seen some stupid stunts in my life, but that one takes the cake.�

�We got him out, didn�t we?� Taylor said. He was drenched and had lost one boot while kicking for safety. In the aftermath, after the adrenaline drained away, he felt his body retreating into a kind of exhausted lull. He felt as if he hadn�t slept for days, his muscles seemed rubbery, his hands were shaking uncontrollably. Thankfully the accident on the bridge was being tended to by the others-he wouldn�t have had the strength to help. Though the engine had blown, the seals around the main tanks had held and they were able to control the fire relatively easily.

�You didn�t have to let go. You could have made it back.�

Even as he said it, Mitch wasn�t quite sure it was true. Right after Taylor let go, the firemen shook off their shock and began to rewind the cable in earnest. Without Taylor�s weight, the ladder had enough tensile strength to allow the passenger to be lifted through the windshield. As Taylor predicted, he was pulled out without a snag. Once he was free, the ladder swung out, away from the accident, rotating back toward the bridge. Just as the ladder reached the bridge, the engine of the truck blew, churning white-and-yellow flames spewing violently in every direction. The car was tossed free and followed Taylor into the water below. Taylor had had enough sense after hitting the water to make his way beneath the bridge, foreseeing just such an occurrence. As it was, the car had come down close, too close.

After he hit the water, the pressure sucked him under and held him for several seconds, then several more. Taylor was spun and twisted like a rag in a washing machine, but he was finally able to fight his way to the surface, where he drew a gasping breath.

When Taylor had come to the surface the first time, he�d shouted that he was okay. After the car hit the water and he�d narrowly avoided being crushed by the hulking wreckage, he�d shouted it again. But by the time he�d swum to the bank, he was nauseated and dizzy, the events of the past hour finally hitting home. That was when his hands had begun to tremble.

Joe didn�t know whether to be livid because of the jump or relieved that the whole thing had worked out. The passenger, it seemed, was going to be fine, and Joe had sent Mitch down to talk to Taylor.

Mitch had found him sitting in the mud, legs drawn up, hands and head resting on his knees. He hadn�t moved at all since Mitch had sat beside him.

�You shouldn�t have jumped,� Mitch finally said after Taylor hadn�t responded.

Taylor raised his head sluggishly, wiping the water from his face. �It just looked dangerous,� he said flatly.

�That�s because it was dangerous. But I was thinking more about the car that followed you into the water. You could have been crushed.�

I know....

�That�s why I swam under the bridge,� he answered.

�But what if it had fallen sooner? What if the engine had blown twenty seconds earlier? What if you�d hit something submerged in the water, for God�s sake?�