A speedboat appears out of nowhere. Hands reach down, hauling us over the side. I don't let go of Hale. The moment my knees hit the deck, I lay him flat, tilting his head back, pinching his nose.
I seal my mouth over his and breathe. Once. Twice. Watch his small chest rise and fall with borrowed air.
Then I start compressions.
The heel of my hand finds the center of his sternum. I press down, counting thirty controlled, steady compressions.
One. Two. Three.
My son is not going to die on this boat.
Seven. Eight. Nine.
Keira moves beside me, cradling his face in her trembling hands.
Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen.
"Come on, buddy. Stay with me."
Twenty-three. Twenty-four.
Please.
Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine. Thirty.
Keira tilts his head back and breathes for him. One. Two.
I watch his chest rise with air he didn't take on his own.
Then I start another round.
She's on her knees beside us, shaking so hard her teeth are chattering. Water streams from her hair, her ruined gown, mixing with blood seeping from somewhere I can't see.
"He's going to be okay," I tell her without breaking rhythm. "Look at me, Keira. He's going to be okay."
Five. Six. Seven.
I don't know if I'm lying.
Twelve. Thirteen.
I can't think about that.
Nineteen. Twenty.
Just keep counting. Keep pushing. Keep his blood moving until his heart remembers how.
Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine. Thirty.
Keira breathes for him again.
I start another round of compressions, and somewhere around the fifth one, Hale's body jerks.
Then he coughs.
A sputtering, choking, glorious sound that rips through me.
Water pours from his mouth in a rush. He's gasping, crying, his small body convulsing as his lungs remember their purpose.
