Introduction

What if almost dying was the very thing that saved your life? By forty years of age, Michael Pruett was a thriving businessman. He had raised millions in capital, started an Internet provider service, worked with contractors to develop and flip homes, and had established a well–respected reputation in Jackson Hole’s real estate community. Add to this a new wife and stepdaughters, and he reached the pinnacle of the high life, or so he thought. He had risen high, and then he fell–hard. But there was a larger story in play, and July 15, 2012 happened–the day he should have died. Michael’s action–packed and riveting biography tells the story of a terrible happenstance that changed everything, in the best possible way. It asks the tough questions, its true–to–life characters exploring life’s uncertainties—about the divine, why bad things happen to good people, and what to do when the road you picked just doesn’t go as planned.

Editorial Review

No editorial review at this time.

Excerpt

Downtown Jackson Hole, Wyoming

Sunday, July 15, 2012

17:26 MT

Paramedic Trent Jensen was hunched over a makeshift table in the radio room of one of Jackson Hole’s six fire and EMS stations, writing a report. He ran the four fingers of his right hand firmly across his forehead in contemplation, his thumb pressed into his temple. Seated, his six-foot-four frame was still imposing, but off the job, his congenial demeanor and good-natured grin revealed a homegrown young man from the Midwest.

Thirteen hours of duty lay ahead of him and his team who lay stretched on recliners around the room, resting from the day’s events, and already anticipating what the night might bring. Every twenty-four hour shift at the station followed the same routine: EMS and fire training at 7 AM, physical exercise in the afternoon, and administrative duties and rest at night. Some days no calls came in, especially during the off-season, but of course it was impossible to anticipate. Their waiting game was endless. Adrenaline was always high. The knowledge that at any given time they’d have to make life-and-death decisions for someone was a weight that no one carried lightly.

At the station, Trent was the designated leader of medical relief on emergency calls, which might come in from all over Jackson’s four-thousand-square-mile Teton County. Jensen’s team could be hiking in three feet of snow 10,000 feet up on the Grand Teton to rescue a waylaid tourist or rushing a few blocks away to administer help to someone suffering from a heart attack.

Tuning in for a moment to the conversation buzzing behind him, Trent looked up from his report and scanned the room, taking in the tired faces of his team and resting his gaze on Brian Carr. Carr was an honest, quick-witted friend and EMT that Trent could always count on to offer choice remarks.

“Well, that poor woman’s cat will never get up on a roof again,” Carr was saying. He was attempting to lighten the mood by offering a jovial comment about their last call.

Trent shook his head, allaying his heavy concentration. EMTs often joked about what they called the “grandma calls.” Those rescues were tediously uneventful, like saving stranded animals or scouring the basement due to a mysterious sound. These were unexpected calls, but sometimes they served as light-hearted breaks from more harrowing rescues. Before Trent could join in with a quip of his own, a burst of static noise erupted from the radio on his belt.

In an instant, the room fell silent as senses snapped into high alert, listening. The first thing Jensen registered was the tone signaling the nature of the emergency. It was not a fire.

Then the voice came through. “Medic 10, this is Dispatch. Man on motorcycle collided with medium-sized truck on corner of 265 South Millward Street and West Hansen Avenue. First responders are recommending a CHARLIE response at this time. Repeat, CHARLIE response.”

Trent felt as though the blood drained from his body—a familiar sensation. CHARLIE meant a potentially life-threatening scenario where time could affect the patient’s wellbeing. “This is Medic 10. Roger that, Dispatch,” Trent returned. “On our way.”

Steadying his nerves, he signaled to his team with a glance and headed for the garage directly adjacent to the radio room, which housed two ambulances, a yellow wild land truck, and two fire trucks. The team had drilled procedures so many times that they didn’t need to communicate. Amanda, a basic EMT, revved the engine of an ambulance while Trent and Brian cleared the steps to the right side door servicing the back of the rig. Five others jumped on to one of the fire engines. Lights flashed above the oversized garage door of the station as it rose, releasing the team to their mission. They knew there was a man near death that they could possibly help, but there were no guarantees.

The multi-colored, beaming lights and screaming siren of Medic 10 blurred through the air as it sped to the accident just ten blocks from the station. Suddenly, another voice cut in on the dispatch line. “This is Medic 60. We were filling up nearby, so we are already en route. Repeat, we are already en route.”

Recognizing Cori Neckels’s voice, Trent exhaled in relief. Fifty year-old Cori Neckels was an intermediate EMT with thirty years of experience. Often referred to as the station’s “mom,” her calm demeanor during an emergency gave the team confidence that things were being done correctly, and that everything would be okay.

As Amanda maneuvered the ambulance, Trent stared at the red and yellow lines running along the interior of the ambulance’s double doors, grateful for an instant to prepare his mind before entering the stress of another emergency. He had spent over two thousand hours training for moments like this. In fact, he lived for these moments. After nearly a decade of navigating through dangerous situations, he still looked forward to each day of work.

Trent prepared himself for the scene he knew he would soon be confronting and felt the familiar fear rise in his body. He unconsciously fingered the wooden cross that hung on a leather string beneath his uniform. A gift from his father, it helped steady his nerves when he faced how quickly and tragically life could end. Yet he also knew his training would kick in like a hallucinogenic drug, checking his emotions and channeling the adrenaline into tunnel vision that would help him make keen observations, identify problems, and administer solutions in a matter of seconds.

Camaraderie and trust were also essentials on the EMS and fire team, and he implicitly trusted his team. They were not only trained to provide basic medical relief, but also to climb ladders to extract victims trapped in a fire, use an axe and a chainsaw, force entry into a burning and smoking building, break down a door or window, escape from entrapments, navigate in swift water in the wild, and enforce search-and-rescue tactics and hazard response. They had seen and done it all, and most of them had witnessed death. Long after they had grieved these tragedies, the memories lived on, even in their dreams, fueling their vigilance and determination to be ready for the next emergency. They all knew it wasn’t just a job—it was a lifestyle.

The ambulance slowed suddenly, coming to a halt in front of Snake River Brewing Company, a pub on the corner of Millward and Hansen. Trent swung open the side door of the ambulance while Amanda moved toward the back doors to lower the waiting gurney, and Brian to the rig’s exterior compartment. An audience had formed in the pub’s parking lot. Trained to analyze details of every scene, Trent immediately noticed one of his station’s captains in the crowd. He was off duty and dressed down, and Trent made the split-second assumption that the captain had been eating at the pub.

The captain acknowledged Trent and nodded affirmatively as he jumped down from the rig. The fire engine following behind them blocked the road. The rest of the station’s EMTs sprang out and headed toward the crowd of people.

As the lead paramedic—a job that required high levels of intense training beyond EMT status— Trent would assess what the other EMS responders were already doing, and in about ten seconds, decipher how best to manage the scene. The wellbeing of a patient was on his watch. If he failed, the patient’s life could end.

Trent’s eyes met a gruesome sight. A man’s battered body lay face down on the pavement. A thick circle of blood surrounded a gaping wound in his head, a mess of skin and sinew. The right half of his scalp had peeled off from his skull and lay beside him. His arms scraped the asphalt as he reached out in front of him, grasping and mumbling an incomprehensible name. His legs jolted as if coursing with electricity.

John Doe. Trent noticed that the man, despite being mangled within a horrific scene, looked vaguely familiar.

The woman stationed at John Doe’s head was the wife of the captain he had noted seconds before; she was a battalion chief. Trent determined that she had most likely been having dinner with her husband at the pub across the street, heard the frightening cacophony from the accident, and rushed to become one of the first responders at the site. She was already administering a manual C-spine immobilization to keep the patient’s head still.

Behind him, Trent heard the outside compartment of the ambulance slam shut. Brian was towing the yellow plastic backboard that would hold the patient’s body. Trent’s mental timer began. They had been at the scene only three seconds.

The petite frame of Cori Neckels, the EMT from Medic 60 that had radioed over to Trent’s team while in route, was crouched and leaning over the patient’s right side, assessing his back. She tore the man’s shirt to expose probable back wounds and ran a hand over the line of his spine. She raked the other through her tawny hair, a nervous habit.

“He’s not responding to anyone yet. He could be seizing,” Trent stated as he ran toward the scene.

Five seconds.

He scanned the area to see if the team had missed any other patients. A man sat in the bed of an older truck, shaking his head, as if in shock. He knew without asking that this man was responsible for hitting the patient. An EMT from Medic 60 was treating his wounds, which appeared to be minor.

Trent arrived at John Doe’s body in seven seconds.

Highway 191

Earlier that Afternoon

13:35 MT

Michael Pruett gunned his black and chrome Bonneville T100 into gear and maneuvered onto the highway. Before gaining speed, he glanced over his shoulder at Dawn, his wife of two years. Her deep aqua-green eyes met his gaze as she cozied her trim, petite figure up behind his solid six-foot-four frame.

The ride to the park from the church was a short distance, and Michael barely had enough time to enjoy the wind against his face before he was already slowing down his James Dean remake. After the couple dismounted, Dawn attempted to straighten and reshape her honey-colored hair without a mirror. Then she smoothed out her dark blue jeans that tucked into tall brown boots.

Noting Dawn’s actions, Michael commented, “You look fine.” A head and shoulders above her, he was proud to walk arm-in-arm with her, a classic American beauty who still caught the attention of a passerby. Her cheeks were flushed from the summer sun and still full enough to give her a youthful appearance that led others to believe she was barely thirty. Not only that, she was a professional woman and confident. Combined with beauty, those traits continually captivated him.

“You look great, actually,” Michael corrected himself.

“Too late,” she said, giving him her coveted wide, pretty smile. She quickly turned her attention to the people they were approaching.

“There you are!” came a recognizable voice behind them. Matt Deehan’s Boston Irish accent was easy to place in Wyoming. His rugged figure towered over Dawn, much like Michael’s. As usual, his salt and pepper curls lay unkempt, and he wore a wry smile. “I thought you guys either got lost or decided to head on home.”

“We might have gotten turned around once,” Dawn jested.

“No, no,” Michael answered in mock defensiveness, “I just like to take the long route.”

“Oh, is that what it is,” Deehan stated in obvious amusement. “And sometimes you like to take the very, very long route.” He raised his eyebrows and rolled his eyes exclusively for Dawn before giving her a wink. It was a boyish gesture, but it had its intended effect.

Dawn laughed in spite of herself, and Michael shook his head as she let go of his arm—a gesture that released him to make his way around the entire crowd. During the three years of their relationship, Dawn had learned that meeting new people, having great conversations, and catching up with friends enabled her husband to come alive. At times others saw Michael’s outgoing, sociable nature as a form of social climbing, or—as his stepdaughters considered it—annoying. Michael didn’t mind and he certainly didn’t change. He simply enjoyed people. In the same way Dawn encouraged his social freedom, Michael understood that although she could appear as an energetic people-person, she was a classic introvert. She enjoyed listening more than speaking and the personal over the public in almost every case.

“Hey there,” Matt Somers, one of Michael’s steadiest friends, said as the couple approached his picnic table. “Take a seat.” Somers’ wife, Heidi, sat beside him, and one of his children was enthusiastically clamoring on his back.

Like most of Michael’s closest friends, Somers was noticeably athletic and usually donned his red baseball cap. The three friends known collectively by their last names, Pruett, Deehan and Somers, had traveled to many sports games in celebration of their fanaticism.

Dawn made herself comfortable on the bench. “There are so many people here! I’m surprised you haven’t taken off on a visiting mission, Michael.”

“Don’t worry,” Deehan whispered to Dawn loudly enough for everyone to hear. “He’s already mentally orbiting the planet!”

Dawn glared blithely at Deehan and Somers laughed.

“Oh come on, you guys,” Christina Feuz cut in as she stood up. Christina was Dawn’s ever-smiling small group leader from church. She and her husband Dan sat next to the Somers clan.

“Give Michael a break!” Christina declared, clutching her newborn in one hand and reaching over to playfully pat Michael’s back with the other. “Poor Michael.” She gestured to Dawn to go with her to get a plate of food. “This little one’s finally ready for me to eat.”

Michael shook his head and laughed heartily as the two women walked away. He was used to the incessant teasing. “I know I married up. One of these days I’ll deserve her!”

“Hey man,” Deehan blurted out. “We never expected you to get a trophy wife...God knows I’m still looking for mine.”

“I married for love, not looks,” Michael quipped in return.

“No, that’s what Dawn did,” Deehan jeered.

Somers chuckled, and Michael laughed and grabbed Deehan’s shoulder as if to pick a fight.

“That was my plan too…” Deehan added quietly with derision.

All present unintentionally heard Deehan’s comment and the table became unexpectedly quiet.

Michael added awkwardly, “I should at least let get something to eat before I sit down.” As he turned to spy the location of food, his eyes strayed to Richard Lewis, a new colleague at his firm, Jackson Hole Real Estate Associates.

Richard looked casual and somehow debonair in his fresh jeans and crisp white shirt. His white hair and gray, neatly trimmed beard stood out in the crowd. Michael’s stomach tensed. Though he hated to admit it, Richard was a great agent and a convincing seller—especially for ranches and resorts. Michael had tried to breakdown Richard’s success on numerous occasions. Perhaps it was because he gave off the essence of a real cowboy, a man that looked more like a character out of a classic western novel rather than a person in real estate. Whatever it was, Richard came across as—and was—strong and reliable, and buyers sensed it.

Richard caught Michael’s look and lifted up his cup of iced tea to greet him from across the lawn. Michael acknowledged him with a nod, and shrugged off the embarrassing memory about the last time Richard had lifted his hand…to defend himself against the threat of Michael’s swinging fist. Literal decades had passed since Michael was in an actual, old-fashioned fight. His reaction had caught everyone off guard, including himself. Thankfully, someone—Michael could never remember who—restrained him.

Michael remembered the look on Richard’s face, his bewildered and slightly amused expression, and it still embarrassed and infuriated him. If Richard had gotten physical in return, who would have won? Richard could have, at the very least, let him win that one.

“Why the sour look, man?” Somers nudged, noting the change in Michael’s demeanor.

“You’re coming over to watch the Cardinals on Wednesday, right?” Michael inquired, ignoring the question.

“Yeah, of course,” he answered.

Michael flashed him a friendly, if somewhat forced smile. Spotting Dawn in a conversation with Nathan VerBurg, a new board member at River Crossing Church, he suddenly had the urge to get out of there, to hop back on his motorcycle and drive the familiar route to Yellowstone National Park. He and Dawn had planned on leaving the picnic early anyway and a drive through the landscape might be just enough to keep his mind at rest. If they left now, they could be back in time to meet their friends for dinner as planned.

“Sounds good,” Michael said, turning his attention back to the table. “I’m gonna go get Dawn, maybe head out a little early.”

Setting down his drink, Deehan raised his hands in the air. “You haven’t even eaten yet!”

“I’ll grab something on the way out,” he called back over his shoulder to a confused Deehan.

Michael’s lengthy form and determined gait was hard to miss as he approached his wife from across the lawn.

Dawn looked up from her conversation and he knew that she interpreted his intent immediately.

“I think we are heading out,” she explained to Nathan.

She would be as relieved as her husband to spend time away from the crowd of people.

Scene of the Accident, South Millward and Hansen Avenue

17:29 MT

Trent gauged from the team’s efforts and John Doe’s automated reactions that his body had been severely traumatized, which meant his spine had been affected. The chances of a successful rescue and patient recovery were dwindling.

Cori was talking to the stranger, attempting to gauge his consciousness. “Wake up! Wake up, Sir!”

John Doe’s words were becoming clearer, “Wi...wife....”?

The plea resonated within Trent. Was the family close by? He had seen too many of those moments. Past accident scenes soared through his internal lens, almost all with the same harrowing effect—a father arriving at the accident in time to see his son take a final breath; a mother screaming as her child’s body hung halfway out the windshield. Those were the images that stuck with him even years later, that came back to him in moments like these and had to be forced away.

“All right,” Trent belted out. “What do you guys have?”?Cori’s raw green eyes bore up at him. She seemed just as relieved to see him as he was to see her.

“Single patient. Unconscious at first. Primary wounds in the head only. Response to pain. Back is clear.”

“Okay. His skin is pink, warm, and dry. Good signs.”

Brian reached the battalion chief’s position and took over. Now at the head of the body, he became the designated leader reporting to Trent. He felt the skull for fractures. Amanda knelt on the stranger’s left side and handed Brian saline to clean the head laceration. Scarlet blood spilt over Brian’s hands as he rinsed the wound and placed a large white 4x4 gauze inside to try and stop the bleeding. For now, they’d have to leave the gash open as they found it. Only a nurse or doctor was authorized to staple the skin back on his skull.

Before the off-duty battalion chief walked back to the lingering crowd, she added in, “He was just lying here when we arrived. There was so much blood that no one wanted to touch him.”

Trent prodded his team further, “Rapid trauma assessment?”

Cori refocused on the patient and pulled up his eyelids, then measured his pulse. “Breathing and pulse are good.”

Brian piped in after hearing the battalion chief’s assessment, “Broken ankle. Minor abrasions on left arm, right arm, and legs. Nueros intact all around.”

John Doe’s arms shot out again. “Wife...my wife!” He appeared to be about six-foot-four with a sturdy build. As Cori tried to pin him down to put an oxygen line into his nose, he gripped her arms. She and Brian wrestled with him to keep him subdued. If he moved too much, the abrasion on his head would no doubt worsen and cause permanent damage.

Subluxation, Trent realized. John Doe was reacting to head trauma. EMTs would often compare the human brain to a computer’s hard drive. When the computer crashed, it had to reboot. This man’s brain was restarting. His vertebrae were probably misaligned, and a recovery from such an injury was minimal.

“We need to get ready to roll the patient on to the backboard,” Brian interjected, gasping from exertion.

“Roger that,” Cori replied, also breathing heavily. She ducked as the stranger swung his fist toward her face. “Some hindrance here!”

After managing to further contain the patient, Cori announced, “On your count, Brian, we’re going to move him as a unit.”

Brian nodded. “One, Two, Three.” Together, they forcefully rolled the patient onto his back on the plastic backboard. Brian held his neck while he velcroed the blue and yellow c-collar to keep him from further damage.

Trent noted the man’s closed eyes and verbal incoherence and estimated that his level of consciousness was at about six, not much above the lowest level of three.

“I’m going to give a report to Saint John’s hospital. Rapid transport,” Trent decided. “Keep going. Get him loaded into the back of the ambulance. Put IVs on both sides.”

“Copy that,” Brian answered.

“Saint John’s. Medic 10.” Trent Jensen waited for the Saint John’s hospital to respond.?

“Go ahead, Medic 10,” a voice rang out from the walkie-talkie in Trent’s hand.

“Saint John’s, be advised we have a Trauma Red patient. Forty-five year-old male. Patient was on a motorcycle. Struck by a truck. No helmet. Currently patient has a scalp avulsion on the right side. Approximately half of his scalp. Possible open skull fracture and subluxation of spine. There is profuse bleeding at this time. We are controlling the bleeding. Patient appears to have numbness and tingling in his hands. Current level of consciousness is six. ETA five minutes.”

“Roger that, Medic 10. Room One is being prepped.”

As Brian and Cori strapped the unrelenting man down, Trent tried to gauge his awareness. “Sir, can you tell me your name?”

Conscious enough to understand what was being asked of him, the man began mouthing a word, only managing to make an unintelligible sound.

Trent repeated his question twice before he got a clear answer.

“Pru...Pru...Pruett.”?The name sounded familiar, but Trent couldn’t place it.

“Pruett, tell us what happened.”?

No response.?

Brian, who was gripping the man’s hand, commanded, “Pruett, pull up on my hand.”?The patient managed a small tug at Brian’s hand.?Cori was finally able to place the oxygen line in Pruett’s nose.

“Okay, Pruett,” Brian coached him. “Take big, deep breaths for me.”?

The man’s eyes quivered open momentarily.?

“Excellent. Lungs sound clear both sides.”?

Cori cut in, “Hey, Buddy. We’re taking you to the hospital. You got hurt.”?

Trent finished the call before the team made it to the ambulance. As he started toward the back of the rig, he reported to them, “I’ll get things set up.”?

Brian, Cori, and Amanda gripped the sides of the backboard through the handholds, lifted the patient smoothly onto the gurney, and began to wheel him toward the ambulance doors. From inside, Trent gestured that he was ready for them to load the gurney in. Brian gave a thumb’s up, and the gurney jolted up and inward. Cori climbed in after it and settled on Pruett’s right side. Brian jumped in the right side door, and Amanda clambered into the driver’s seat.

Brian caught Trent’s eye. “He kept saying ‘Pruett.’ He doesn’t know what happened. I don’t know what his first name is, but I think it’s Michael. I’ve seen him advertise property a few times. He’s with Jackson Hole Real Estate in town.”

Trent looked down at Michael. First names are better, but personal. John Doe is just a body; Michael is a life.

“Michael, you’re still with me here, right? Squeeze my hand.”

“Still has good grip,” Trent reported. His focus now was to keep Michael breathing well. He reached out for the middle finger of Michael’s left hand and clamped on a finger monitor to measure his heart rate and oxygen saturation. Bright lines on the monitor’s screen came to life, rising and falling with his bodily rhythms. Trent wrapped the inflatable upper bicep monitor over Michael’s right arm to read his blood pressure. Iridescent lines jolted upward above the other lines on the screen.

The time read 17:35—only seven minutes since the call.

Highway 89 Toward Yellowstone National Park

Prior to the Accident, 14:58 MT

The ride to the park and back took several hours, yet the familiar route never got old, and Michael and Dawn enjoyed it whenever they could. A perfect tapestry of nature, Teton County and the surrounding land covered ninety square miles, ninety-seven percent of which had been set aside as National Parks and wildlife reserves. Often called “God’s Country,” this stretch of land was too beautiful not to experience every day as if for the first time. Before them on the left, the Teton mountain range rose above the basin in haunting majesty. Its peaks—like razor-sharp teeth—still bore white masses of snow in the warm weather.

As Michael accelerated down the highway, Dawn wrapped her arms more tightly around his waist, and his mouth curved upward in a smile. He attempted to give himself to the ride—just the two of them in the warmth, floating past white-capped mountains and grassy plains where elk and bison idly grazed. No dramatic teenage step-daughters, no demands from work. It was a Bluebird day, not a cloud in the sky, which was typical for summers in Jackson. Summer was short in that part of the world. Four short months; that was it. The rest of the year the city and surrounding areas were entrenched in some form of winter.

The couple stopped for a moment to enjoy the view of the Snake River from an overlook. At Moran Junction, Michael turned left onto the John D. Rockefeller Jr. Parkway and passed through Colter Bay Village, where the river spilled into the looming waters of Jackson Lake. They could see visitors and locals filling the marina, eager to sail in the fair weather.

As they rode on, the mountains and lake subsided into drier, open plains. Michael’s mind drifted back to his current conundrum, and he gritted his teeth in frustration. Not one to believe in luck, Michael couldn’t help but consider that he needed some kind of break. He gritted his teeth in frustration. When he had jumped into real estate five years previous—after conquering several start-ups, flipping houses, and just about everything else a successful entrepreneur might put his or her hand to—real estate seemed to be another venture guaranteed to thrive. Property in Jackson had jumped an astronomical 513% between 1992 and 2007. Baby boomers were arriving, looking for recreational paradise, or a second home. But like the rest of the U.S. economy, the market crashed and by 2008, sales slowed to the lowest in twenty-five years. The excitement and creativity involved in matching property with buyer kept him in the game, yet the lack of financial return cost him everything, and he had arrived at the lowest, most humbling season of his life.

His ego had tanked along with the real estate market. Everything he had worked for since starting his life over after moving to Jackson nearly seventeen years before was eroding in front of him like an ebbing tide, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. For the first time in his life, he had been questioning his ability to do anything well. It seemed like he had the opposite effect of King Midas—instead of turning the things he touched to gold, his touch caused things to disintegrate. At times, he wanted to tell his clients, “You know, you’d probably have more success with someone else.” He had risen high…and then fallen—hard. As things in real estate had spiraled downward, he knew it was bigger than just a market crash. He needed to end this—whatever “this” was—once and for all.

The truth was that four years later he was nearly broke, and he felt like he was back to the beginning of his career again. Dawn’s salary at her managerial job supported their expenses. With Dawn on a recent sabbatical from work, would he be able to support the whole family? It was a bothersome fact that perhaps he had not found the answer to. Somewhere he had gone wrong. Somewhere money had become more than a means to an end; money was the end. Perhaps he hadn’t started out that way, but who knew? All Michael remembered was a fleeting feeling of confidence when he first started out. His star was rising and he had nowhere to go but up. How long ago was that? He couldn’t place it. Twenty-one-year old Michael flashed in his mind, shaming him.

Then there was college Michael. Yeah, he thought sarcastically. Follow your dreams. You’re heading places. Suddenly—and uninvited—Rachel came to mind. He witnessed a brief scene of happiness…a blanket on the grass at a movie in the park. What was that title again? Younger Michael had somehow chased her away, and he still hadn’t figured out how he had done it.

He felt Dawn grip more tightly and looked down to check his speed. He cleared his throat and shifted gears to slow down.

He had always considered himself a good, Christian, all-American man. When he was younger, he kept a tattered scrap of paper that his father gave him that read, “God Never Changes.” After his first few setbacks and disappointments in early adulthood, Michael put that paper away for many years. God may not change, but life does constantly. Michael leaned into God in a traditional sense, but he also believed that men must take independent action to secure their future. Being able to claim his success and be responsible for his faults was something that lent him confidence. But lately in quiet moments when his mind was still and his thoughts turned against him, he wondered if God was actually the problem. Was God teaching him a lesson? If so, what?

Michael would work on it. He’d fix it. He knew he had to. His parents had brought him up in faith and also championed the spirit of self-reliance, and he was well versed in how to pick himself up by his bootstraps. It was a legacy he embraced, but the thought of having to fix some unseen, unknown problem exhausted him. If God were against him, what would be the point? Couldn’t God let him win just once? He exhaled and unknowingly gained speed, keeping his eyes focused on the yellow lines on the road before him.

The couple reached their turnaround point, the south entrance of Yellowstone National Park. Michael slowed the motorcycle and killed the engine. They stepped off the bike and stretched their legs, looking out over grassy knolls on their left and the blue expanse of Yellowstone Lake to their right.

Dawn could sense that he had unwittingly become tense and looked up at him in question.

“Just thinking about work, but I’m stopping now,” Michael responded, reaching out to grab her and hold her close.

“Love,” Dawn began, smoothing her windblown hair. She was attempting to change the subject so as to distract him. “I’m not sure I feel up to doing anything else tonight. I’ve been feeling guilty about it, but I’m hoping something else comes up so we don’t have to go out.”

He shook his head in jest. Michael didn’t believe in canceling anything, particularly dinner plans.

She simply grinned cajolingly back at him, and, of course, it worked.

He laughed at how easily she could sway him. “Maybe they’ll have canceled.” He reached down, grabbed his phone and checked his email. A new message from another local realtor appeared in his inbox.

Michael,

I have someone who’d like to see one of the properties you’ve listed, The Lofts. Are you available this afternoon?

Situated just three blocks from the town square in arguably the best location in town, the property boasted of high-end residential condominiums. Small in square footage, they offered affordable options for the average person. The red brick exterior of the building furnished a different feel than most of the cowboy-style log cabin buildings of Jackson Hole. Several of the condominiums had already sold and they were still showing well.

Michael internalized the possibility in anticipation. The property had potential for great revenue. “Looks like I’ve got a showing. We should probably head back.”

Dawn frowned and then punched him playfully in mild annoyance. Their lovely afternoon was being cut short, and they’d probably go to dinner with their friends after all. “Well, at least let me change my shoes!” she teased.

“All right, I’ll drop you at home so you can change. I’ll show the property and then pick you up.”

She climbed on behind him, and he revved the engine.

Ambulance in Route

17:37 MT

“Can you blink your eyes three times for me?” Trent asked. “You were in a motorcycle accident, and we’re going to take you to the hospital.”

“There’s significant bleeding here!” Brian exclaimed as he swathed Michael’s head again with new gauze.

Trent lost count of the number of bandages Michael had bled through. Each gauze lasted fewer than a few seconds.

The beeping from the medical equipment, the individual voices barking out the patient status, and the immediacy of the responding movements filled the small interior of the ambulance with a sharp sense of anxiety.

Checking to see if Michael’s consciousness level was rising, Trent shifted his gaze to the patient’s face. “Michael. Tell me what hurts right now.”

“My…head…hurts,” Michael stuttered. He struggled against the straps that held him down, but his entire body was immobilized.

“Cori, go ahead and get an IV on that side to keep his organs perfused. I will monitor fluids.” Too much fluid could cause head pressure. He called to the front of the ambulance, “We’re going to run Code 3.”

Brian cut in, “I’ve got a second set of lung sounds. Still strong on both sides.”

“Okay,” Trent confirmed. “I’m going to get blood pressure on this side and then start an IV on this side.”

The machine analyzed Pruett’s body, the lines racing and weaving up and down.

“O2 stats on oxygen at 98%. Pulse is about 110. Getting blood pressure,” Trent continued.

“Bleeding is starting to slow down,” Brian interjected while still applying pressure.

The machine beeped three times. “Blood pressure is 120/70. Not too high. That’s good.” Trent exhaled.

Cori announced, “Line’s going good on this side. I’m running wide open.”

Trent looked up to gauge the exterior surroundings.

“Almost to Saint John’s. Pruett, squeeze my hand for me. Okay, tell me what finger I’m pinching. Good.”

The ambulance skidded to halt in the Saint John’s Emergency entrance at 17:38.

Near Jackson’s City Center

16:10 MT

Michael loved Dawn for many reasons, but he appreciated her supportive attitude most of all. By the time he met her at forty-one, his financial situation had already become difficult. He had asked her to marry him in spite of his insecurity. After she replied with an exuberant, “Yes,” declaring that he was the perfect man for her, he met her gaze and joked, “I know you’re not marrying me for money, because my tax return shows that I’m at poverty level.”

At 16:17 MT, Michael and Dawn reached their house on Pine Drive overlooking downtown Jackson. Michael slowed and circled around the cul-de-sac at the end of the street and gunned the motorcycle up their steep driveway.

Willie, Michael’s longhaired golden retriever—obviously awaiting their return—bounded up to greet them.

As he idled the engine, Dawn stepped off the bike and leaned over to kiss him. “Good luck!”

Michael reached down to ruffle Willie’s fur and then said, “Be back in a bit.”

Dawn hesitated. Her gaze strayed back to him again, uncertain.

“Something wrong, Love?”

“You don’t want to take your helmet?”

“Nah!” Michael chortled. “I never do in town.”

Dawn stared at him a moment longer and shook her head before she turned and stepped up the pathway to their front door.

Michael knew Dawn sensed things—things no one else would know—about people or situations that weren’t quite right. Her intuition was rarely wrong. He didn’t understand her all the time, but he had learned to listen. Seeing as she hadn’t made too much of it this time, however, he put it aside.

Shifting gears, he glided down their driveway, curved around the hills of Pine Drive, and finally turned onto South Millward Street. It was an easy one-mile ride to the condominiums. Five minutes later, he was there. The showing didn’t take long, and the realtor and client were cordial and interested. He knew there were no promises, but at least it was something.

He checked his watch to make sure he was still in time to get Dawn for dinner.

17:20 M.T.

They would be a little late. He climbed back on his bike, started the engine, and took off toward West Broadway, slowing as he neared the evening rush of downtown. Once on the home stretch, he gunned the bike to twenty-five miles per hour.

As he cruised down South Millward, he barely noticed the older, full-sized truck on his left, speeding to the upcoming intersection at West Hansen. Normally he was more alert to large vehicles, but his mind was full, and he had the right of way. Snake River Brewery loomed ahead on the corner. No doubt it would be filled with off duty cops and other personnel who were either gearing up or winding down for another Monday.

His thoughts briefly flickered back on Dawn’s precautionary moment, and he had only a second to register that the truck coming toward him was not slowing as it neared the intersection. Before he could react, it was swerving into a wide left turn—directly in front of him. Michael yelled out, but there was no time to stop. They were going to crash head on.

Still going full speed, Michael instinctively laid down his bike down. The side of his body and limbs dragged along the pavement, forming deep gashes that instantly spurted vibrant blood. The rusted paint of the old F-150 flashed in front of his eyes as he hit the truck’s fender headfirst.

As his mind began to darken, his limp body slithered underneath the truck. A long screech of grating metal filled the air as the truck crushed everything beneath it. The truck spun out of control, dragging him with it, and finally grated to a stop in front of the brewery, its front end ground into the concrete.

Michael knew that he was about to die, but that did not concern him in comparison to his final question. Where was Dawn? He could hear his own voice calling out for her and tried to lift his head to find her, but couldn’t.

Then there was only silence. view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

1. Why do bad things happen to good people?

2. Michael's story calls into question the existence of chance, destiny, and miracles. Do modern miracles really happen, like chance, circumstance, or destiny?

3. Why are we so obsessed with trying to "figure it all out"?

4. Michael was successful in every sense of the word before his accident.What does success really look like and when can you stop trying to "climb the ladder"?

5. Michael, Dawn, and those close to them learn valuable lessons through the process of Michael's accident and struggle for survival. How does tragedy teach us to value what we have in reality?

6. Are Americans under more pressure to wealthy than women or men in other cultures?

Weblinks

»	Author Michael Pruett's web site
»	Official Book Trailer

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