I dropped to my knees. Training kicked in immediately.
Scene safe enough. Check responsiveness.
“Sir,” I said. “Can you hear me?”
Nothing.
His breathing was shallow. His pulse—weak and wrong. His lips turning blue.
“I need someone to flag the ambulance!” I shouted.
No one moved.
Fine.
I laced my hands together and began compressions—hard, fast—counting out loud to keep panic at bay. My arms burned. Sweat froze against my back.
The teenager’s voice shook as he spoke into the phone. “This lady’s doing CPR. We’re behind the bar with the neon dog sign.”
The man in the blazer stepped even farther away. Like compassion was contagious.
Then—finally—sirens cut through the night.
Paramedics rushed in. One dropped beside me.
“You started compressions?”
“Yes,” I panted. “No effective breathing. Weak pulse. Cyanotic.”
