“Cool.”
That’s pretty much the extent of our conversations. We don’t have a lot in common. He’s graduating from high school next month, and even though we’re only a few years apart in age, the gap between us feels much wider.
We settle into silence as we scan the lake. There are a few paddle boarders out today, and I watch them stumble as they try to find their balance on the waves. One of them has a tiny dog perched on the board in a bright orange life vest.
Ryan and I each have designated zones of responsibility. His is toward the south, and mine to the north. I don’t entirely trust him, so I keep stealing glances at his zone every now and then, just in case.
A few hours later, I’m grateful for my mistrust.
I look over to see him sliding into a girl’s DMs on his phone, thumbs flying across the screen, completely distracted. My head snaps to his side of the lake.
The subtle movement catches my eye instantly—a little girl’s head sticking just above the water level, wet hair draped in front of her face. I can’t hear her scream, but I see her mouth hanging open. Her voice is drowned out by the lively chatter and music blaring from onshore speakers.
I don’t waste time scolding Ryan. Instead, I instantly spring into action, swiftly unclipping my pump.
I grab the orange rescue buoy and hop down from the tower, skipping the ladder steps entirely. My legs sting with pain as I hit theground, but I’m already sprinting. I blow my whistle with one long burst, signaling an emergency.
My adrenaline spikes the second I feel water splashing at my ankles. I dive forward and kick hard. The rescue can trails behind me, dragging in the wake. My arms slice through the water, but it’s not fast enough. It feels like everything is happening in slow motion.
As I propel through the water, I catch glimpses of her bright green swimsuit. She rises and falls with the rhythm of the waves, terrifyingly still.
When I finally reach her, I hook the rescue can under her back and cradle her small body. Her blue eyes are open but unfocused.
I squeeze her shoulder, and her skin feels ice cold. “I’ve got you. Hang in there,” I whisper.
I quickly tow her back to land, her body hanging limply across the rescue can. A crowd has gathered at the shore, and I instantly know which one is her mother. A short, frail woman wades in the water with mascara running down her face, shaking with fear.
“Hannah!” she wails, rushing forward.
“Stay back, please. She’s not breathing.”
I lay Hannah gently on the sand and crouch next to her. Her skin is pale and clammy, her chest unmoving. Lake water seeps from her nose and the corners of her mouth.
Someone in the crowd shouts that an ambulance is on their way, but I know they’re at least five minutes out. I need to act fast. My brain races as I try to recall all of the steps from my annual CPR training.
I assess her size. She’s young, maybe ten years old, but she’s big enough for me to use both hands for chest compressions. I interlock my hands and press down below her sternum at a steady rate. I sing “Stayin’ Alive” silently in my head to keep the tempo, which is conveniently 104 compressions a minute.
After administering compressions, I gently tilt her head back and lift her chin forward. I pinch her nose shut. My hands shake as I seal my lips over hers and breathe. Once. Twice.
Nothing.
A spark of panic surges through me, but I quickly extinguish it. I can’t freak out right now. I need to focus.
I start compressions again. I’m vaguely aware of the chatter around me, but it sounds muffled, like my head is underwater. I can hear sirens, but they sound too far away.
I give her two more breaths.
Her body jerks. A sputtering cough erupts from her blue-tinged lips. Water drizzles from her mouth as she gasps like she’s just awoken from a nightmare.
I gently flip her onto her side, cradling her head as she coughs hoarsely. Her eyes are wide and dazed, but she’s breathing steadily now. Her mother gently strokes her soaked brunette hair, crying with relief.
“Thank you,” she sobs. “Thank you.”
I’m not sure if she’s talking to me or some kind of deity in the sky. Either way, I nod numbly.
The paramedics arrive seconds later, shouting at the crowd to clear out and give them space. They strap Hannah into a stretcher, and her mother follows them to the back of the ambulance. The medics bark orders to each other, yelling about oxygen levels and body temperature.
The doors slam shut, and the ambulance flees the beach with sirens roaring, leaving visible tire tracks in the sand.
