Page 90 of Two Wrongs
‘Where’s Kit?’ Fin asks.
‘Gone to arrange a boat to the mainland so we can get to the hospital. So we can follow.’
I feel so fucking useless—why have I never completed an emergency first-aid course? What can I say? What can I do?
The only thing I can. Comfort Nat. Be there for my friend as her watery gaze stares up at me. I place my hand on her shoulder.
‘Her breathing is so awful. What can we do?’
Wait. Pray. ‘Help will be here soon.’ I place my arms around her but can’t offer her anything else.
A distraction at the end of the room pulls our attention as Kit strides in, full of self-assurance.Please God, let him know what to do.
‘It’s in the air, and a first aider is on the way.’ As he reaches the end of the bed, his poise drains away as he takes in the fragility of June.
I don’t know Kit very well, but he very much seems the take-charge kind. He’s pleasant enough but reserved. He strikes me as the kind of man who’s a bit of a hard arse beneath the image he’s cultivated.Layers. The man has layers I can only guess at.
‘Let me... ’ His words trail away as he motions Natasha from the side of the bed, rolling June onto her side.
The recovery position. Why didn’t any of us think of that?
I wrap my arms around Nat’s back, rubbing small comforting circles. At least, I hope they are.
‘How long has she been like this,’ he asks his brother.
‘Fin found her a few minutes ago.’ Feels like hours ago.
‘She was conscious then but couldn’t seem to speak. I only left her to shout for help.’
Fin begins to cry softly, Rory pulling her tear-stained face into his broad chest. ‘Hush now, you did the right thing.’
‘Fin, you’ll go with Rory on the boat once we determine which hospital she’ll be taken to.’ He glances at his watch, no doubt thinking the same as the rest of us.
Please let it be a hospital and not a morgue.
Nat turns in my arms and begins to sob. But then, Dylan appears, speaking softly to Kit. He rolls June on her back once again, taking her hand in his. I notice her fingertips are blue.
Fingers under her chin, he tilts her unconscious head.
One knee on the bed, he lays his sandwiched palms on the centre of her chest.
Chest compressions.But she’s breathing, isn’t she?
We stand.
We watch.
We don’t speak as Dylan pumps away hard enough to break a rib.
‘First-aid training prep for a movie.’ He catches my gaze, his mouth a sad half-smile. Beads of sweat break out on his forehead, running down his face. Without speaking or thinking, I step closer and use the sleeve of the robe to wipe his forehead. His gaze is grateful, his eyes moving almost circumspectly to the bump named Vlad.
As though sensing the connection, Vlad kicks.
How long do we wait? A minute? Thirty? An eternity? But eventually, paramedics—a doctor?—appear in a blur of high-viz clothing with their unfamiliar jargon and acronyms.
Unresponsive.
AF.
