Madison never did remember climbing back up that embankment. Sarah said she moved like someone twice her size, calm and certain, hands drenched in blood that wasn’t hers. The paramedics later admitted that without immediate pressure on that wound, Tank would have died in minutes. The surgeon confirmed it: whoever held that artery closed bought him a life he had no right to keep.
What nobody in the hospital could chart or measure was the way a dead child’s favorite song became a lifeline. Tank’s nightmares slowly shifted—from replaying the crash that killed Emma to replaying a tiny stranger’s voice telling him he was forgiven. The club stopped calling it a coincidence. They started calling it a second chance. Madison grew, but she never stopped wearing that vest. And Tank, every time he sees her, touches the patch that bears his daughter’s name and chooses, again, to live.
