Eleonora
“Eleonora, are you sure you want to go to Salou?” My mother’s voice crackled through the car phone. She sounded worried, slightly dramatic, like she so often did.
“Of course I’m sure, Mom. I’ve already been driving for four hours,” I replied calmly, adjusting my sunglasses. The sun blazed harshly through the windshield, and the air conditioning could barely keep up with the shimmering heat.
The road ahead of me was almost empty. Only a few cars passed me now and then, and every so often a motorcycle rumbled through the golden light. The highway stretched long and winding through the Spanish landscape, a silver-gray ribbon between green hills and sun-scorched fields. Pine trees lined the roadside, their dark needles barely moving in the dry air. Beyond them lay olive groves, wide meadows, and the occasional glimmer of a river or irrigation canal. The sky was cloudless, vast, and such a deep blue it almost looked unreal.
My mother let out a heavy sigh.
“You didn’t even say goodbye properly. You just packed your things and drove off, Eleonora.”
“Mom, I just needed a break,” I said softly. “After all those years at the clinic, the night shifts, the emergencies. I need some time off. I want to be by the sea. Alone.”
“Alone,” she repeated quietly, almost reproachfully.
I steered into a long curve. Ahead of me was an old rest stop with a dented trash can and a single dried-out tree. The water bottle on the passenger seat rolled sideways when I lightly tapped the brakes.
“I’m not leaving forever,” I said. “Just two months. No alarms, no phone, no clinic. Just me. Maybe a book. Maybe boredom. I think I’ve forgotten what that feels like.”
Silence lingered on the other end of the line. Just a faint background noise, maybe the television.
“All right then,” she finally murmured. “But call me when you arrive.”
“I promise.”
I ended the call, slipped the phone back into its holder, and took a deep breath. About two more hours, then I’d arrive in Salou. Coastline, sunlight, salty air. I couldn’t see the sea yet, but I could already feel it in the way the landscape changed, the way the hills flattened and the horizon widened.
Further ahead, the road shimmered in the light. Everything was moving, in a quiet, heated motion. Time stretched itself thin. And I simply kept driving.
Toward the south.
Toward summer.
Toward freedom.
The drive dragged on, but I didn’t mind. Quite the opposite. It was the first time in months that I wasn’t being pushed forward by beeping monitors, ringing phones, or frantic voices.
To my left, the landscape rolled by in waves. The fields became drier, the rich green of the trees slowly giving way to the dusty gold of the southern provinces. In the distance, hills shimmered in the haze as though they weren’t entirely real. The air above the asphalt flickered. Even with the air conditioning running, it was hot. Summer wasn’t doing anything halfway.
I turned the radio down. A Spanish pop song, something cheerful about love or sunshine. I wasn’t really listening. Instead, my eyes drifted over the road signs at the side of the highway. Tarragona: 110 kilometers. Salou wasn’t far anymore.
Suddenly, my fuel light blinked on. Yellow. I frowned and sighed. Typical. When I’d left Madrid, I’d thought of everything except filling up the tank.
A few minutes later, a service station appeared ahead. Not very big, but it had a gas station, a café, and two dusty palm trees barely moving in the hot wind. I exited the highway, rolled into the lot, and stopped at the last free pump. By now, the sun was hanging low, glaring at me through the mirror.
I got out, and the hot metal of the door burned briefly against my palm. A sweet scent of warm gasoline and asphalt hung in the air. Somewhere behind me, a wasp buzzed around the trash cans someone had halfheartedly shoved beside the pump.
I slid the nozzle into the tank and leaned against the car for a moment. My T-shirt clung lightly to my back. No idea whether it was the sun or the exhaustion. Probably both. The tank filled slowly, the ticking numbers on the display the only sound in the silence.
When it clicked, I pulled the nozzle out, screwed the cap back on, and walked toward the register. The little cashier booth was air-conditioned, but still smelled like cheap coffee and tire pressure gauges. A young woman with dark hair stood behind the counter, chewing gum, giving me a brief, tired smile.
“Número cuatro,” I said.
I paid in cash, gave a short nod, and stepped back out into the heat.
Back in the car, I closed my eyes for a second before starting the engine again. The air conditioning slowly began blowing cooler air through the interior. I took a sip of water, turned off the radio, and drove back onto the highway.
Two more hours.
Then the sea.
Then nothing.
I had no idea that less than thirty kilometers later, my life would be turned upside down forever.
The road ahead lay quiet again. I was back on the highway, the hum of the engine becoming a familiar background sound. The fields to the left and right slowly began to darken. The sun sank lower, painting the horizon in warm shades of orange and rose that slowly melted into violet.
I kept driving, my gaze fixed calmly ahead. My thoughts drifted somewhere between Madrid and the sea.
The first lights flickered on. In the distance, a small town glittered atop a hill. I watched the shadows grow longer, stretch out, blend together. Dusk arrived quietly, but unmistakably. The day was almost over.
Then I noticed it.
A little off the road, just past a long bend, a car stood in the shadow of the embankment. It looked out of place, as though someone had carelessly abandoned it there. But the closer I got, the clearer it became that this was no ordinary parked vehicle.
The front end was badly damaged. The car sat crooked on the slope, slightly twisted, as if it had spun or slid off the road. The hood was crumpled, one side pressed against a tree, the bark splintered apart. Part of the bumper lay on the ground, bent and hanging loose. The right headlight flickered weakly. The hazard lights still blinked at uneven intervals.
I slowed down, finally pulling over onto the shoulder. When I switched off the engine, everything went completely silent. No honking, no movement. Only the last fading rays of dusk stretching over the fields.
I remained seated in the car for a moment, staring at the wreck by the roadside. My heart beat faster, but I forced myself to stay calm.
Then I reached for the door handle and stepped out.
The air was warm and heavy. A faint wind carried the scent of dry grass and dust. My footsteps were quiet, almost automatic, as I approached the crashed car.
The driver’s door was open.
I stepped closer.
Then my breath caught.
A man sat in the driver’s seat, his upper body slumped sideways. The seatbelt was the only thing keeping him upright, but his head hung low, his chin almost resting on his chest. Blood clung to his forehead, his temple, dark stains spreading across his shirt. His hair was matted, his skin far too pale.
I carefully leaned closer. The interior smelled like metal, heat, and something I couldn’t identify. My eyes darted quickly over possible injuries before I reached out with trembling fingers, pressing two of them gently against his neck in search of a pulse.
A moment of silence.
Then I felt it.
Slow. Weak. But there.
He was alive.
I inhaled sharply, pulled my hand back, and instinctively glanced around. No other cars. No one anywhere nearby. Just me. And this man.
For a few seconds, I stood frozen, trying to organize my thoughts. Then I stepped closer to the car again and carefully leaned inside. My gaze swept over his body. Initial assessment.
Unconscious. Breathing present. Pulse weak but palpable. Noticeable blood loss. Laceration to the forehead, bruising on shoulder and ribcage. No visible fracture. No obvious spinal injury.
I checked his neck again, feeling for the pulse once more, this time deliberately paying attention to his breathing rate and rhythm. Irregular, but not dangerously shallow. His chest rose at sluggish intervals.
“Hey,” I said quietly, not knowing whether he could hear me.
No response.
The steering wheel pressed against his upper body, and from the driver’s side I could barely reach him. So I walked around the car and carefully pulled open the passenger door. It stuck slightly before finally giving way.
The interior was crushed, the front completely destroyed. But the man was still strapped in, and that had probably saved his life.
I knelt beside him, took his arm, and with practiced fingers searched for his radial artery. Pulse again. Steady, but slow. My eyes checked his pupils as best as I could in the weak light. No visible signs of traumatic brain injury, but I couldn’t rule anything out.
I needed help.
Damn it.
I grabbed my phone and looked at the screen. Two bars. Barely any signal. The emergency call connected briefly, then immediately dropped.
I clenched my teeth. I couldn’t just leave him here. And at the same time, I knew that without equipment, without a team, without an emergency physician, there was little I could do. But if I moved him without knowing whether he had internal injuries, I risked making things worse.
I looked down at him again.
Tall. At least six foot three. Black hair, soaked with sweat, but thick. His lashes rested against his cheeks like shadows, his beard a few days old, even, almost perfect. Despite the blood, the injuries, the severity of the situation…
He was beautiful. Obscenely beautiful.
His arms, where the shirt was torn open, revealed defined muscles. Not a bodybuilder, but fit.
What the hell, Eleonora.
I swallowed hard, shaking my head inwardly.
He was unconscious. Injured. Covered in blood.
And I had seriously just been thinking about how attractive he was.
I felt heat creeping up the back of my neck.
Not because of the sun.
I forced myself to look away from his face and focus again. His breathing was becoming shallower. His head sagged further and further forward, his chin nearly pressed to his chest. His airway wouldn’t stay clear like that.
I tried stabilizing him slightly in the seat, but the seatbelt kept him trapped in a position that only made everything worse.
I exhaled slowly.
“Okay,” I murmured quietly. “Then it’s me.”
I pushed the passenger door wider open and carefully leaned inside. His legs were bent in the footwell, but not visibly trapped. No glass. No debris in his lap. I supported his chest with one hand while slowly releasing the seatbelt with the other.
His body dropped heavily forward, but I caught him as best I could. He was heavy. Damn heavy. As strong as he looked, I felt every single pound now. I slid one arm beneath his shoulder, trying to keep his head as still as possible, and gently pushed him back slightly.
“You need to help me out here, big guy,” I murmured. “I can’t carry you alone.”
No response. No movement. Only his weak, sluggish breathing.
Slowly, I pulled him partway out of the seat, just enough so his upper body wouldn’t collapse forward anymore. His breathing sounded rough, but freer than before.
Only then did I return to my car, grabbing my water bottle and frantically ripping open my backpack. Tissues. Anything useful.
Then I found an old kitchen towel I’d carelessly packed at some point.
I dampened it with water, leaned over him again, and carefully wiped the blood from his forehead. The wound was deep, but not gaping. It had stopped bleeding.
He looked peaceful. Far too peaceful for someone who looked as though he’d just fought death itself.
I stared at him a moment too long.
Then I quietly cleared my throat, almost guiltily.
“You’re definitely way too handsome for a mess like this.”
He didn’t move.
But my heart still started beating faster.
I had no other choice.
I supported him again, pulled the belt fully away, and slid both arms beneath his shoulders. Step by step, carefully, inch by inch, I dragged him farther out of the car. His weight pressed down on my shoulders, my back tightened painfully, but I didn’t let go.
His upper body sagged heavily against me as I pulled him backward out of the vehicle and slowly lowered him onto the warm asphalt. His legs slid out of the footwell, his head falling sideways against my chest.
“Almost there,” I panted softly. “Just get out of here.”
I carefully laid him down on the ground, positioned him as straight as possible, and checked him again.
His chest…
Wasn’t moving anymore.
I stared at his chest. No rise. No fall.
“No, no, no.”
I immediately dropped to my knees beside him, leaned over, and checked his pulse again.
Nothing.
“Damn it!”
I placed two fingers beneath his chin, tilted his head slightly back, opened his mouth, and checked for breathing sounds.
Nothing. No movement, no sound, no air.
My heart was racing, but my hands weren’t trembling. Not yet.
“Okay. Focus.”
I quickly checked his mouth again. No visible obstruction. Then I started chest compressions. Thirty fast, forceful compressions, right in the center of his chest, enough pressure to pump blood to the brain.
“One, two, three…”
I counted silently in my head, refusing to lose focus.
Then I tilted his head back, pinched his nose shut with two fingers, and breathed twice into his mouth. I checked again.
Still no response.
Back to chest compressions.
“Come on. You are not dying on me, do you hear me?”
I didn’t know who he was.
Only that I had to save him.
At any cost.
