Red. Raised. Spreading fast up his throat toward his jaw.
“There!” I point, voice raw. “See that rash? What’s that? He was fine, then wheezing. What the hell is happening?”
Sienna doesn’t slow her hands. “Does he have any allergies?”
“Shellfish.” The answer comes fast. “There was shrimp at lunch, but he didn’t—”
My eyes drop.
His hand.
The cut.
Everything clicks.
“He cut himself on the net.”
I grab his hand, turn it over.
Swollen. The same red rash tracking outward from the wound in every direction.
Sienna swears under her breath. “There were crustaceans in that debris. Elevate his legs,” she orders. “Now! He’s in anaphylactic shock.”
Her voice tears across the beach, cutting through the chaos.
“Ambulance! Where’s the ambulance? Does anyone have an EpiPen?”
“His bag.” The words tear up my throat.
I don’t wait for a response.
I run like I’ve never run in my life.
The canopy is impossibly far away. The sand grabs at my feet, fighting me with every step.
Move faster. He needs you.
Heat, glare, bodies—I shove past all of it. My calves scream from the pace. I can’t stop.
I slam into the table hard, rattling it as I grab his backpack. It slips from my grip, slick with sweat.
“Dammit! Hold still.”
I flip it.
Everything spills out in a violent scatter.
Batteries.
Tangled cables.
Paper. Cards. More useless shit.
A smashed protein bar hits the ground.
“Where is it!”
My hands shake. I can barely see straight.
