Creatix Fiction
[Click here to read Chapter 1: John Saved Cash. Tom bought Bitcoin.]
[Click here to read Chapter 2: Meet Rachel Brown, Crypto Digger and Hedge Fund Dreamer]
Chapter 3 – Sirens in the Hart Farms
Rachel had just merged onto Route 53 the highway connecting Hart Farms to downtown Rochester when her phone lit up with “Grandpa” in big white letters and the Bad Bunny ringtone she had for him just for fun. She smiled, expecting to hear his usual road safety spill. She always thought that it was more dangerous to take the call than not, but she knew her grandpa meant well and she always picked up. To Rachel’s surprise, his voice came fast and uneasy.
Grandpa: “Hey Rachel, are you still nearby?"
Rachel: "Sort of, I’m already on 53 heading home. Why?"
Grandpa: "It’s… it’s something with Tommy. His house—there’s an ambulance out front. And a fire truck. Lights flashing like…”
Rachel: "Wait—Mr. Johnson? I was just at his house helping him with the computer…”
Grandpa: "Yes! I looked out the kitchen window and saw the paramedics rush in. Your grandmother’s peeking through the curtains like it’s the Super Bowl. I called because you were just there. Do you know what’s going on?"
Rachel: (gripping the wheel tighter) "No, everything was fine when I left. We were just… talking. What happened?"
Grandpa: "I can’t tell from here. The stretcher’s out, but they haven’t brought anyone to it yet. Oh—hang on, I think I see smoke coming from the kitchen window. Could be steam, but it looks… wrong."
Rachel: "Smoke? Grandpa, is anyone outside? Is he okay?"
Grandpa: "I see a police officer speaking to one of the paramedics. And Rachel… they’re moving quickly. Too quickly."
Rachel: (heart pounding) "I’m turning around. Stay put. Don’t go outside. Just… keep watching."
Grandpa: "Alright, but Rachel—be careful. Something feels bad about this."
The line went dead. The road ahead blurred for a second before Rachel blinked herself back to focus. She hit the next exit ramp hard, the echoes of sirens faint but growing louder in her mind.
Rachel’s hands tightened around the steering wheel as she turned out of the quiet side street and headed toward Hart Farms. The late-afternoon sun still hung high, turning the wide fields outside the city into sheets of gold. On a summer Saturday in Rochester, traffic was light with just a few SUVs with bike racks, a pickup hauling a camper, and a couple of motorcycles weaving lazily toward the river. The road curved through stretches of prairie grass and new developments, where the air smelled faintly of cut hay and barbecue smoke drifting from backyard grills.
Ahead, the familiar stone entry pillars of Hart Farms were still miles away, but Rachel could already picture the wide, tree-lined boulevards that led to her grandfather’s subdivision—the manicured lawns, tidy gardens bursting with coneflowers and hydrangeas, and the winding sidewalks where neighbors waved from Adirondack chairs enjoying the long-awaited summer.
But her mind was on the flashing lights she had just left behind.
She imagined the scene next door to her grandfather’s place: Mr. Johnson reaching for his chest, a glass of water slipping from his hand, glass smashing on the floor, liquid plashing everywhere. He somehow dialing 911 and calling for an ambulance. The tightness in his face, the sudden drop to his knees, the way the breath might have left him in short, panicked bursts.
The image wouldn’t leave her. It played over and over as the sun flickered through the windshield, each flash a strobe on the imagined scene. She saw the paramedics bursting through the front door, the defibrillator pads, the clipped, urgent voices counting off compressions. And through it all, she kept hearing her grandfather’s voice on the phone—worried, confused, almost pleading with her to explain what had happened—even though they were not on the phone anymore. That’s how Rachel’s brain worked, always with countless of different images running a streaming show in her head.
Rachel pressed the accelerator a little harder just 5 miles above the speed limit. She always thought it was important to remain calmed in times of crisis. Ans this was a crisis because Mr. Johnson was holding 973 BTC in a digital wallet that was worth $104 million. Now he was having a heart attack. The calm beauty of a Rochester summer day felt suddenly unreal, as though the whole world should be leaning into the same sense of urgency that was tightening in her chest. For some reason, as a Mayo Clinic employee familiar with the frailty of life and the many twists and turns of elderly health, she knew Mr. Johnson’s situation could get complicated.
Rachel turned into Hart Farms, the familiar curve of the road pulling her toward her grandfather’s quiet cul-de-sac. The rows of manicured lawns and blooming hydrangeas blurred past as she spotted the flashing red and blue lights up ahead. Her grandfather’s house sat just beyond the cluster of emergency vehicles, a safe, weathered brick home with white shutters—its calm façade clashing sharply with the chaos across the driveway.
She pulled into his driveway, shutting off the engine without bothering to close the door behind her. The rhythmic wail of the ambulance’s siren had been muted, but its lights still pulsed against the neighborhood’s sunny stillness. Across the hedge, two paramedics in navy uniforms were guiding a stretcher down the front walk of Mr. Johnson’s house.
On it lay Mr. Johnson himself—his skin pale, a sheen of sweat along his temple. His eyes fluttered half-open, unfocused, as if he were trying to fight his way back to full consciousness but couldn’t quite manage it. One paramedic held an oxygen mask firmly over his mouth and nose, while the other adjusted the IV line taped to his arm. A third EMT, walking backwards, kept the gurney steady over the slight dip in the walkway.
Rachel’s stomach tightened. She knew that look—that distant, drained expression—too well from her shifts at the Mayo Clinic. She was a financial analyst, not a medical professional. However, she was assigned to the Emergency Department account and was used to spending hours in the emergency room, which for her was a form of “therapy”. She had grown accustomed to see the fragile line between stability and collapse, especially in older patients. A minute too long, a heartbeat too slow, and the balance could tip in the wrong direction.
Her grandfather stood on his front porch, leaning against the railing, his face drawn tight with worry. As the stretcher was lifted into the ambulance, Mr. Johnson’s hand twitched slightly, as if he were trying to grasp something invisible in the air. Rachel couldn’t tell if it was instinct, confusion, or the desperate will of a man who still had unfinished business.
The back doors slammed shut with a hollow metallic thud, and the engine roared to life.
Here’s the direct continuation, picking up from the ambulance doors closing:
Rachel stood still on the edge of the driveway as the ambulance began to roll forward, its siren bursting to life in a sharp, urgent cry. It wasn’t just the sound that rattled her—it was the realization that somewhere inside that metal box was not only a man’s life, but the fragile thread connecting $104 million in Bitcoin to the rest of the world.
If Mr. Johnson didn’t make it… and if that wallet password wasn’t secured… those 973 BTC could be gone forever—locked behind an unbreakable wall of encryption, floating in the digital void until the end of time. No bank manager to call, no “forgot password” link to click. Just gone.
She imagined the wallet address like a gleaming treasure chest sunk to the bottom of the ocean—visible to anyone who knew where to look, but impossible to open without the key. A key that currently existed only in the fading, faltering mind of an elderly man strapped to a stretcher.
Rachel felt a cold pressure in her chest that had nothing to do with the summer air. At the Mayo Clinic, she’d seen the way sudden illness could shatter even the sharpest mind. Sometimes it was hours before memory returned… and sometimes it never did.
Her grandfather was watching her now, his brow furrowed. “Rachel,” he called softly, as if sensing the storm in her thoughts, “this doesn’t look good.”
No, it didn’t.
In that moment, Rachel understood she was no longer just a bystander to a medical emergency. She was now part of a race against time—one that had nothing to do with paramedics or EKG readings, and everything to do with unlocking a digital vault before it was sealed forever.
TO BE CONTINUED
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