You scream over the echoes of the bomb: “Call 911!”
Two rescue breaths, just like in the book, move down. Find the xyphoid, ignore the twisted shape of his ribs and push push. Ignore that this kid had shoved in front of you, ignore his shrapnel and his burned flesh on your hands. Push push. Move back up, head-tilt-chin-thrust. He’s young, no lines on his face, then the sirens and wounded wail in chorus, remember breathe, breathe. Fingers on his neck, feel for a pulse, feel for breath on your cheek. C’mon, any pulse.
Just a little heartbeat.
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