I should be glued to the comment stream—counting viewers, tracking donations, analyzing every spike and dip. My career depends on it, but my thoughts are stuck on Cole.
He dropped that camera like it was nothing.
When the moment came, the real one, the one that mattered more than him winning, he didn’t hesitate. He winged it. And it was the right call.
I trusted him more than my own plan. What the hell am I supposed to do with that?
“LOOK!” Blaze yells, jabbing toward the waves.
A burst of neon red punches through the surface. A tiny, hopeful beacon.
“LIFT!” Orson shouts into the radio. “Buoy confirmed! Crane up, NOW!”
Seawater pours off the metal in heavy sheets, crashing back into the swells. The cable locks, vibrating with a tension so thick it raises the hair on my arms.
The crane groans, arm bowing as it drags the weight upward. The harness bites into the rusted casing. The operator steadies it, knuckles white, the whole rig protesting as if it might give. Finally, the trapped animal clears the rail.
“Move!” a woman shouts.
The crew explodes into action—a whirlwind of saws and muscle. Metal screeches and sparks fly as a cutter tears into the warped drum. A large man jams a bar into the gap, prying with all his weight. Another braces the side, boots skidding on the slick mix of seawater and oil.
Orson booms, his voice a volume I didn’t know he had. “Clear your hands! Watch the—”
The drum gives with aSCREECH.The metal splits,and the sea lion mother’s lifeless body spills onto the deck.
She lands heavy and stays motionless, her fur dulled with grime.
“Quiet!” Orson shouts, and the chaos stops like somebody hit pause. “Only trained personnel near the animal. Everyone else, back away.”
He’s kneeling beside her before the words finish, already working. “Airway first. Respiration. Sea lions can recover from extended submersion, but we have to act fast.”
With a nod to his team, they heave her onto her side, angling her snout to open the airway. Orson’s fingers find her pulse point beneath the flipper. Ear to her chest. Waiting.
Blaze stands motionless. The crew halts. On my screen, the comments go eerily silent, thousands of people across the globe suspended in the same breathless moment.
We need a miracle.
Orson brushes the corner of her eye, then flashes a light into the pupil.
“She blinked,” I whisper, unsure if it really happened.
Then—
A broken, gurgling inhale. Life fighting its way back.
“She’s ALIVE!” Orson exclaims. “We need to stabilize her core temperature, administer oxygen, and gauge her neurological baseline. Let’s start monitoring vitals for secondary complications, now!”
The team moves as one. A blanket settles over her. The oxygen mask seals with a sharp click. Gloved hands brace her head, immobilizing it with gentle precision.
Her tail twitches, a weak but unmistakable slap against the wet deck.
Once.
The team sees it, and for the first time, their shoulders drop with relief.
Blaze makes a sound that isn’t quite a word, a choked, sob-laugh that vibrates through the phone.
And the chat roars to life all at once:
