The silence flipped a switch in me. I grabbed the knob. Locked of course. I jerked the handle a few times, pressing my weight into the door. My voice gained volume as I called and continued banging. “Pat! Answer me! Are you okay?”
Fray poked his head out of the opposite bedroom door. “Uhm, everything alright out here?”
“I don’t know.”
“He said he was sick.”
“That’s what he told me, too.” I shook my head. This dude probably thought I’d lost my marbles. “But, he’s not answering. You have a key to this door?”
“Uh, no—”
“That’s fine.” I fished a gift card out of my purse to try a trick Jack taught me. Fray frowned when I stuck the gift card into the door jamb near the knob latch. I moved the card up and down over the latch until it stuck.
Don’t let me down, Jack.
I pushed the card deep and the door popped open an inch or so.
It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim light in Pat’s room. A grey comforter was in a pile at the foot of the bed. A smashed box was against the far wall and papers littered the room. A recliner faced the window. But I didn’t see Patrick.
Light filtered from underneath a door conjoining with his room. A bathroom maybe? I leaned into it as I tried the handle. It thudded into Pat, who was lying face-down on the floor, blocking my entrance. “Pat! Are you okay?” I gently pushed the door into his back to see if I could get him to move. He didn’t. Was he just super wasted?
There was no way I’d be able to squeeze through the opening, so I knelt and reached in to shake him. He was shirtless—skin cool but sweaty. His muscles were unnaturally loose and there was no response to my touch. Then I saw one of his hands.
Pat’s fingernails were blue.
“Fray!” His name screeched out as panic gripped my vocal chords. “Fray, help me!” Within seconds, Fray was there. “Something’s wrong! His fingernails are blue.”
Fray’s eyebrows rose and he sprang into action. He pushed the door, unconcerned about the corner digging into Pat’s side, and slipped his thin frame into the bathroom. Before he even stooped to move Patrick away from the door, he commanded, “Call 9-1-1! Right now!” His voice resonated with the authority of a commander and his tone screamed emergency.
I pulled out my phone with shaking fingers and dialed.
Please, please, please be okay.
Fray grunted as he scooted Patrick away from the door and rolled him onto his back. I entered the bathroom as the operator answered. “9-1-1, where’s your emergency?”
I confirmed the complex’s address. “That’s Berkshire apartments, building 15, unit 1522.”
All the color had drained from Pat’s face. His eyes were rolled back into his head. Perspiration matted his hair, and his beautiful lips had turned greyish-blue. Fray was bearing down, rubbing his knuckles back and forth on his chest. Pat didn’t move.
Fray fed me information. “He’s overdosed. Unresponsive.”
Overdosed?
Nausea swelled deep in my gut, and my heart clenched. “I think my friend overdosed. He’s unresponsive.” Fray leaned his ear over Pat’s face then tilted his chin back.
Fray started rescue breaths. Pat’s chest artificially rose and fell. I tossed the phone onto the bed before she even disconnected. Fray looked up as he moved to chest compressions. “It's going to take them about five minutes to get here.” He positioned his hands on Pat’s chest and depressed. Something snapped.
“How do you know?” So long. Pat’s life was in the balance.
“It’s my day off.”
As a special education teacher, I had to be trained in CPR and first aid. And since most of my students were adults, the information applied. Fray and I could be more efficient in saving Pat’s life if we worked as a two-rescuer team. “I’m trained. I’ll do the next rescue breaths and then we can switch.” He nodded, counting under his breath.
“28…29…30.”
I tilted Pat’s head back again to deliver more rescue breaths. His chest rose and fell. Once, then twice.
Please be okay.
