Boyd Winston had been a pilot for Medi-Flight for twelve years. Every trip they made was to pick up someone in critical condition, and this trip was no exception. He’d heard the medics on board talking and knew the patient they were picking up this time was a child. But his job was to get there as quickly and safely as possible, and return the same way, making sure the patient had every opportunity to survive.

This was his first trip of the new year, and he didn’t want to start the year off losing a patient before he got them where they needed to go.

He was in constant contact with the hospital in Blessing all the way there, and radioed them when he was four minutes out. He’d flown to Blessings before, so when he finally came over the little town and glanced down at the helipad he was approaching, he was shocked when his vision suddenly blurred. And then panic struck as he felt the band of muscles begin tightening across his chest. When he broke out in a cold sweat, he knew what was happening, but he needed to get down before he passed out.

“Help me, God,” he muttered, then radioed to the hospital. “Coming in. Be advised. Pilot in distress.”

The EMTs behind him heard and leaped to their feet, shouting, “Boyd! Boyd! What’s wrong?”

Boyd just shook his head and, with every ounce of focus he had left, set the chopper down on the helipad, shut down the speed of the rotors, then grabbed his chest and passed out.

Dr. Quick was on the site when he heard the call.

“We can’t wait for another pilot to get here!” he said. “If I don’t act now, this child has no chance at all.”

Ava grabbed his arm. “We don’t have to wait! There’s a licensed chopper pilot right here in Blessings. Marjorie Knox’s oldest son flew helicopters for the army, and he’s employed by an oil company in Houston, flying oil workers back and forth to offshore rigs. He can do this!”

“Then call him!” Dr. Quick said.

Ava grabbed her phone and ran out into the hall, calling as she went. It rang once, then again, and again, and she was in a panic, afraid it would go to voicemail when she heard Hunt’s voice.

“Hey, how’s my favorite girl?”

“Hunt, we need you! A little boy was just hit by a car, and we need to get him to Savannah for emergency surgery or he’s going to die. The Medi-Flight pilot just landed the chopper and then passed out. We think heart attack. Please! Can you help? There’s no time to get another pilot here, and we’re not equipped to do this surgery.”

“Give me three minutes,” Hunt said, and disconnected.