Book One In the Lockwood Next Generation Series.
My name is Gracie Matthews and before I could tie my own shoelaces or even ride a bike, I knew I was in love with Wyatt Carter.
I thought he felt the same way.
Turned out I was wrong.
Well, Wyatt, f...
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Almost Two Years Later
I was deep in the heart of the Democratic Republic of Congo, hopefully coming to the end of one of the largest measles outbreaks the region had seen in decades, but tonight had been one of the busier nights.
Looking up from the medical chart, the makeshift hospital, a cluster of tents patched together with tarps and thin fabric, hummed with activity even at this late hour. Doctors, nurses, volunteers—they all moved with purpose, though the weight of exhaustion wasn't exclusive to just me. Everyone was tired.
I was thirteen hours into what should've been an eight-hour shift, finishing my notes on the boy I'd been watching since midday. He couldn't have been more than six years old, lying there quietly on the cot.
Kids hit me the hardest. Every time there was this pull—like I had to save them all, no matter what. And today, looked like it was gonna be a good day. His small body, which had been burning up and drenched in sweat just hours ago, was finally cooling down. Sometime after midnight, his fever broke.
I exhaled slowly, realising it was the first breath in hours that didn't feel weighted.
His breathing, once ragged and shallow, had evened out too. The rasp in his lungs was fading, the medicine finally doing its job. I glanced up at one of the nurses who'd been assisting me, looking just as tired. I gestured toward the boy. "He's stabilising. Fever's down. Just keep an eye on his hydration, but I think he's out of the woods." She smiled. "Get Dr Dalton to take a look if anything changes." She nodded, and it was finally time for me to call it a night.
Doing a few more checks, I grabbed my stuff and stepped outside the tent. I rubbed my hand across my face, the rough hair scraping against my palm. God knows how long it had been since I'd had time to shave. I stretched, feeling the stiffness in my shoulders and dropped my head back to be greeted by the deep, velvety darkness of the Congolese night sky, thick with stars that seemed to hang lower here than back home. The air was still humid, and it reminded me of home, of the wide open sky above Lockwood, though the night sounds here were different—denser, alive in a way that made you feel small, part of something much bigger.
I lowered my head and blinked trying to remember what day it was. Saturday.
We'd been in this particular area for weeks, long enough that the routine had started to blur—check vitals, administer meds, monitor progress, repeat. In between, there was barely time to think, let alone sleep.
My mind went to Gracie.
It was Friday evening back home. With the time difference—she might still be waiting.
It had been over a week since I'd last checked in, and the guilt gnawed at me. No matter how busy I was, I couldn't shake the ache of missing home, missing her or the weight of regret for the way I'd left, cowardly sneaking away, breaking a promise.
