Page 54 of The Chaperones

That night, 4:12 a.m.

The radio on her chest emits static.

“Emmy, can you hear me? Everything all right?” Sam’s voice emanates through the radio, dominating the sound of the crashing surf.

“There’s a body,” Emmy says into the radio, still staring at the person’s bent arm, their blue coat. “I’m going to check their pulse now, see if they’re breathing.”

She reminds herself of the ABCs of first response. Airway, breathing, circulation. Although she’s up to date on her classes, she’s never actually had to use what she learned. It would be easier if this person had fallen on their back, where their mouth and chest were easy to access, where she wouldn’t have to move the body to do a full survey. Emmy glances up at the cliff above. It’s not an impossible fall to survive, particularly if this person bumped their way down. But she can feel the quietness of the moment, the lifelessness. She knows, even as she approaches, that this person is dead.

“Hello? Can you hear me?” She doesn’t expect a response and doesn’t get one. She’s close enough to touch the body now. As she runs her floodlight over the figure, she can see it’s a woman. Her long hair is saturated in blood. It dangles over her shoulder, obscuring the right side of her face. Emmy bends down to inspect her. Even this close, with the light aimed at her, Emmy cannot make out the features of this woman’s face. She can only tell that she doesn’t appear to be breathing. That her nose is broken.

A splash of cold water shocks her ankles. If there’s a pulse, a breath, she will have to move the body. The water is too cold. Hypothermia too much of a threat. But none of that matters if this woman isn’t breathing.

Emmy rests her hand on the woman’s back. The fleece is soaked and stiff from the cold. The body beneath it is motionless. Emmy doesn’t feel her ribs rise and fall.

“Ma’am?” Emmy says, moving her hand from the woman’s back toward her arm. “I’m going to touch your wrist now.”

Emmy reaches for her arm. From the swan-necked deformity in the forearm, she can tell it’s broken. Through the woman’s thick sweatpants and fleece coat, she’s unable to see signs of other injuries.

“I need to push up your jacket to get to your wrist,” she tells the woman. She reaches out her thumb and index finger, but before she can gently pull up the cuff, her radio chirps.

Ranger Sam’s voice is loud and rapid, unlike the steady presence she’s used to from him. “I’ve got a father that took off. Says his wife’s missing. He’s headed your way. I couldn’t stop him.”

Emmy moves her hand away from the woman to lift the radio off her chest.

“Thanks, Sam. I’ll keep an eye out for him.” Emmy reclips the radio. She takes a deep breath to steady her hand as she reaches out for the woman’s sleeve again.

She gets a grip on it and gently pulls it up to expose the wrist, relieved that she hasn’t jostled the arm in the process, potentially making the woman’s injuries worse. As she continues to shift the sleeve, it catches on something. Emmy scoots her finger under to see what the fleece snagged on, and a bracelet slips down. It’s mesh, with diamonds.