Page 139 of Ghosted

I press my fingers to her neck.

Nothing.

No.

I move before the thought can finish. Heel of my hand on her chest. Other hand over it. Arms straight. Count.

One. Two. Three.

“Come on.”

Four. Five. Six.

Her face is turned slightly toward me, wet hair stuck to her cheek, mouth parted like she almost has something sarcastic to say.

Seven. Eight. Nine.

“Wake up.”

Thirty compressions.

I tilt her head back, pinch her nose, breathe for her.

Nothing.

Again.

Nothing.

I go back to her chest.

I know how to do this. Years of lifeguard training. Swim team safety checks. Emergency drills I never gave a shit about because they were boring and fake and no one ever tells you how loud a dead girl is when she isn’t making any sound at all.

One. Two. Three.

“You don’t get to do this.”

Four. Five. Six.

“You hear me?”

Seven. Eight. Nine.

“Come on, ghost girl, wake the fuck up.”

My voice breaks again.

I don’t care.

I breathe for her. Press again. Breathe. Press. My hands know what to do even when the rest of me is gone, locked into a rhythm because stopping means letting the truth in, and I can’t. Not her. Not here. Not while my hands are the ones trying to drag her back.

“Come on, baby.” The words rip out of me, raw and fucking useless. “Open your eyes. Be mad at me. Hit me. Do something.”

Her chest doesn’t rise on its own.

I keep going.

Water runs off me onto the tile, mixing with the mess we’re making. My arms shake. My ribs burn. I press my mouth to hers and breathe like I can force life back into her if I just do it right. If I move fast enough. If I refuse hard enough.