clerk listened for a few seconds, his face going pale.
Then he lowered the phone.
They said ambulances are grounded. Roads are closed. Plows are stuck west of here. No helicopter in this wind. They said the storm will not break for at least eighteen hours.
Eighteen hours.
Tank looked down at the baby hidden inside his jacket.
Hope’s heartbeat fluttered against him. Fast. Uneven. Fragile.
Seventy-two hours, the note had said.
But when had the clock started? When had the doctor spoken those words? When had the mother written the note? When had Hope last eaten? How long had she already been cold?
The clerk ran both hands through his hair.
Maybe someone can get here when the storm lets up.
Tank did not answer.
He was listening to the heartbeat.
It was the smallest sound in the building, but somehow it was louder than the wind.
In his mind, he saw Ellie again. Her bald head on a pillow. Her hand in his. Her voice asking if he would still tell her stories when she got better.
He had not been able to save her.
He had spent nearly five decades pretending that helplessness had turned him hard. Maybe it had. Maybe that was why people called him Tank. Big shoulders. Gray beard. Scarred knuckles. A man built like a wall.
But walls do not matter when there is a baby freezing in your arms.
Tank turned toward the door.
The clerk stared at him.
What are you doing?
Denver is eight hundred miles away, Tank said.
The kid’s mouth fell open.
You cannot be serious.
Tank zipped the jacket higher around Hope.
I am.
You will die out there.
Maybe.
The clerk shook his head hard.
No. No way. The roads are closed. You heard them.
Tank looked down at the little bulge beneath his jacket, at the place where Hope’s body pressed against his chest.
She dies if I do nothing.
The clerk swallowed.
Sir, please.
Tank picked up the note and folded it into his inside pocket.
Call Denver Children’s. Tell them Hope is coming. Tell them Tank Morrison is bringing her.
The kid’s eyes filled.
Who is Tank Morrison?
Tank paused at the door.
Tonight? Just the fool who is not waiting eighteen hours.
He stepped back into the blizzard.
The cold hit him so hard it stole his breath. Snow lashed his face. The parking lot lights blurred into halos. He hunched over Hope instinctively, shielding the front of his jacket with both arms as he crossed to the Harley.
The bike looked half-buried already.
Tank wiped snow from the seat, climbed on, and kicked the engine once.
Nothing.
He kicked again.
The Harley coughed, snarled, and came alive.
Tank felt something like gratitude move through him.
He clipped the CB microphone to his collar, pulled onto the road, and keyed the transmitter.
This is Tank Morrison on I-90. I have a newborn baby with a heart defect. She needs surgery in Denver. Emergency services are down. Roads are closed. I am riding anyway. If anyone can hear me, I could use help keeping her alive.
Static answered.
He rode into the white.
For several minutes, there was nothing but wind, engine noise, and Hope’s heartbeat against his chest. Tank leaned forward over
