Brax does precisely as instructed. Chris's chest rises and falls in rhythm to Brax's breaths, but his pulse remains flatlined.
“What now?” Brax asks, his voice riddled with so much panic he sounds like a pubescent teen.
“We keep going until the paramedics arrive. We don’t stop. We never stop. He’s going to pull through. He won’t do this to us.”He won’t do this to me.
Anguish clouds Brax’s eyes before he faintly nods his head.
“One. . . Two. . . Three. . .”
* * *
I don't know how long it takes the first responders to arrive. It is long enough for my worry to switch to anger, but not long enough for me to give up on Chris just yet. I don't know who I am angrier at: Chris for placing me in this predicament, or myself for leaving him unattended for even a minute today. I didn't visit him from sunup to sundown on this exact day every year the past four years for no reason.
Chris will never admit it, but he has suffered from depression a majority of his life. I only realized his diagnosis during my six months at the academy. The psychological training was as intense as the physical. Chris's depression is the reason he always takes risks or causes trouble. He doesn't feel as if he is living unless he is surrounded by havoc or chasing his next hit.
For years, I thought his drug of choice was adrenaline. Now I realize I was way off the mark. But he’ll be okay. He’ll pull through this. Just like Savannah, I kept his heart pumping. When the first responders shock him with the defibrillator, he’ll be right as rain—right?
Right.
Then why is this horrible feeling twisting my stomach?
* * *
“Charge again,” the male paramedic advises the female medic kneeling next to the defibrillator that just shocked Chris for the third time.
Nodding, she does as instructed.
Four sets of eyes stare at the graph, waiting for the inevitable dip and fall that should follow Chris’s heart being zapped with electricity for the fourth time.
It doesn’t come. It remains in one straight line.
“Do it again,” I demand when they eye each other with reservation. “Shock him again.”
The male paramedic shakes his head. "We can't. He's been shocked too many times. I'm sorry, but your friend is gone."
“No!” I argue, shaking my head like I’m psychotic. “Do it again. He’s just tired; he needs an extra boost.”
When they ignore my request, I scoot across the tiled floor, not the least bit concerned the water from the tub is seeping into my clothes. “Shock him again.”
I stab the charge button of the device, preparing to zap Chris myself if they deny my request once more.
The female paramedic yanks the defibrillator out of my grasp. "We've done everything we can do. We administered naloxone twice; we've worked on him for over forty minutes. He's gone."
“No,” I deny, not wanting to acknowledge the honesty in her words.
Acting like I can’t feel three sets of eyes staring at me with sympathy, I restart my compressions on Chris’s chest. “Come on, Chris. Come on. You’ve got this. You’re just playing. You’re always playing.”
When I reach fifteen compressions, I lift my eyes to the female paramedic, requesting she squeeze the bag of air sealed over Chris's mouth.
"Please,” I beg. "He just needs a little longer. Don't you, Chris? You're always the difficult one, rocking up late and causing havoc."
I scrub my knuckles over his sternum again, praying he will move, moan, yell at me for nagging. He does nothing. Not a single thing.
I gave him my word, and he gave up.
This is all my fault.
Chapter 6
