I start swimming, my ribs protesting with every stroke, slowing me down. Dad surges past me and gets there first. “It’s him!” he shouts.
Hudson floats face down, tangled in the half-submerged tree. One arm is twisted at an unnatural angle, his shirt caught on a thick branch.
I tread red-tinted water beside Dad, who’s trying to lift Hudson’s head above the surface but can’t get the right leverage.
“Pocket knife,” he grunts. “Front right pocket.”
I circle around him, heart pounding, and fumble inside his jeans until I grab the knife. I flick it open with shaking hands and slice through Hudson’s shirt, careful not to nick him.
The fabric gives, and my dad turns him over. Hudson’s face is ghostly pale, a jagged cut across his temple, blood oozing down his neck.
My stomach churns, and I feel like I'm the one drowning.
“We’ll float him back,” Dad says, winded. “We need to call 911 when we get to the bank.”
I can’t speak, mind blank. I just cradle Hudson’s head in my hands, staring at his face like it might disappear if I look away.
Like this might be goodbye.
Sirens wail close by as we breach the bank, and I pray that somehow they are coming for Hud. A flicker of hope cuts through the chaos, but it vanishes as fast as it comes. Hudson still isn’t moving. He’s not coming to.
He was face down in the water for two, maybe three minutes. That’s too long. Too long not to breathe.
We drag him to drier ground, careful not to jostle him. Dad drops to his knees beside him and starts the CPR process.
“Hudson?” he barks, tapping his face. “Hudson!”
Nothing. His chest remains still.
My knees give out as I fall beside his lifeless form, grasping his cold, clammy hand.
“Dad! He’s not breathing!” My voice breaks, strangled by panic. I feel like I’m splintering apart. “Baby, please… please, please,please.”
Dad doesn’t respond as he checks for a pulse, his jaw clenched. “Damn, his pulse is weak,” he mutters, and starts compressions. Hudson’s chest jerks under my dad’s hands, and his ribs expand as air is blown into his lungs.
I can’t move. Can’t think. My body is frozen, but my mind is screaming.
Please, God, don’t take him from me.
I vaguely register paramedics scrambling down the embankment, red medical bags bouncing against their sides. Another follows behind with a backboard in his grip. The male medic drops to his knees and takes over compressions. The female kneels beside my dad, pulling on gloves as she asks something, but I can’t hear it.
Everything is muffled and distant, like I’m watching from outside of my body. I see mouths moving, but all I hear is blood rushing in my ears.
My eyes lock on Hudson. He’s so limp and still, his pouty lips an alarming shade of blue.
The medic opens his bag and pulls out some sort of machine. My dad is giving the female paramedic all of Hudson’s information, but the words sound muffled.
They lift him onto the backboard, ripping my hand free. I scramble after them, feet stumbling on the uneven ground, scared to look away.
“Hud, baby…” Tears stream down my face as I whisper his name over and over.
One of the paramedics presses leads to Hudson’s chest, then hits a button on the small machine and yells, “Clear!”
Hudson’s body spasms with the jolt of electricity.
Come on, baby, wake up. Please, please wake up.
Water drips off my chin, my tears heavy and unstoppable.
