The Hand Of Providence

CHAPTER 3 — “The Sound of Breaking Glass”

Rain beat against the diner windows like static. Jason sat in a back booth, hair damp, a coffee gone cold in front of him.

The news played on the TV above the counter, his face still circling the drain of public opinion. “Rogue Doctor Dismissed After Fatal Incident,” the anchor said, voice too clean to belong in real life.

He pushed the mug away. “Turn that off,” he told the waitress.

She shrugged. “It’s all over, honey.”

“I noticed.”

A kid at the counter glanced over, whispering to his mother. Jason looked down at his hands, nails clean, skin rough from endless scrubbing.

Healing hands, they used to say. Now they just looked guilty. A phone buzzed on the table. Unknown number. He ignored it.

Then the door burst open, a man soaked through, panicked. “Someone help! There’s been a crash on Fifth! A car, there’s a girl trapped”

Nobody moved. The man’s voice cracked. “She’s not breathing!”

Jason was already on his feet. The waitress called out, “You can’t go out there, it’s”

But he was gone, into the rain. Fifth Avenue was a river of flashing lights and chaos. A black sedan had slammed into a concrete divider, glass glittering across the asphalt.

The smell of gasoline and rain hung thick. Jason shoved through the small crowd. A security detail shouted at him, but he ducked under the tape. “Doctor!” he yelled. “Let me through!”

“Sir, step back!”

“She’s not breathing,” Jason said. “You want to watch her die?”

A hesitation. Then someone moved aside. He dropped to his knees beside the wreck. Inside, a young woman lay slumped against the deflated airbag, blood trickling from her temple.

Her pulse was barely there. “Pressure bandage,” he muttered. “I need”

“Nobody’s allowed near her,” a bodyguard barked, gun holstered but tense. “You’ll wait for paramedics.”

Jason met his eyes. “She’s got less than two minutes.”

“I said”

“Then arrest me after.” He ripped his own shirt into strips, packed the wound, and tilted her chin to open the airway. “You breathe, I breathe,” he whispered.

“Who the hell are you?”

Jason ignored him. “Pulse fading, shock setting in.” He started compressions, steady, precise. Rain poured down his face, mixing with her blood.

“Sir, stop!”

He didn’t. “Come on, come on, stay with me”

A faint gasp escaped her lips. He pressed harder. “That’s it. Don’t quit now.”

The bodyguard grabbed his arm. “You’re killing her!”

Jason swung around, eyes fierce. “She’s already dying!”

Sirens wailed closer, ambulances cutting through the storm. Jason refocused, counting under his breath, the world narrowing to her heartbeat that wouldn’t come.

Then, A spark. A shuddering inhale. Her chest rose, fragile but real. Jason froze. The pulse returned, weak but steady. “She’s back,” he said softly.

Paramedics rushed in, taking over. One of them blinked at him. “Who are you?”

“Nobody,” he said, standing. His knees trembled.

The rain fell harder, drowning the noise. Behind the flashing lights, the bodyguard spoke into his earpiece: “Notify the detail. The president’s daughter is alive.”

Jason heard it, barely. He turned toward the crowd, dozens of phones raised, recording. And in that blur of lights and rain, he understood: his life had just reset itself. For better. Or much, much worse.