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“No. Fuck no!” I grabbed his shoulders and shook him. “Trevor.” When he didn’t respond, I shook him again more rigorously. “Trevor!”
His head rolled slightly to the side, and my stomach dropped so hard I thought I might throw up. I pressed two fingers against his neck, drudging up the old life guard training Dee forced on me. Then I leaned close to his mouth. His breathing came out shallow and uneven. A wet rasp more than a breath.
“Oh my God.” My hands shook as I pulled my phone from my pocket and nearly dropped it twice. Ring. Ring. Ring. “C’mon!”
“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”
“Please hurry. I need a fucking—” Miracle, I thought. “—ambulance? Helicopter! I have a kid here who’s hurt. He’s barely breathing.” My voice cracked and I swallowed. “There’s a kid unconscious. He was in the water. I think he was drowned.”
“Where are you located?”
“Camp Dix.” I looked around wildly like the trees were suddenly going to give me an address and nodded like a dumbass when the operator rattled off the coordinates she’d pulled up from somewhere. “Yeah. Yes! Camp Dix, near the lake. The dock. Please, you need to hurry.”
“Is he breathing right now?”
“Yes.” I bent closer. “Barely. It sounds wrong, though. Like he swallowed rocks or something.”
“Do not leave him.”
“No shit! I’m not leaving him.”
“Can you tell me approximately how old he is?”
“He’s only fourteen.” My hand hovered above Trevor’s face. I was terrified to touch him. Terrified not to. “Trevor.”
The dispatcher kept talking. Instructions. Questions. I answered automatically.
Was he vomiting?
No.
Was he responsive?
No.
Keep his airway clear. Watch his breathing. Don’t move him unnecessarily. Help was coming.
Help was coming. Help was coming, I kept repeating it in my head because the alternative was screaming.
“Come on, kid. Mason’s waiting for you, my dude.” I brushed the wet hair away from his forehead. “Come on. You are not doing this to me, asshole.”
His lips were turning a blueish color.
“Trevor.” I leaned closer. “Open your eyes please. You’re supposed to make fun of my shoes at breakfast.”
Nothing.
“You’re supposed to tell Mason he snores.”
Nothing.
“You’re supposed to call me a moron for loving the most impossible man.” I laughed once. That crazed sound you made when you thought laughing was better than crying. “C’mon Trevor. You still owe me ten dollars, you little asshole. Please.” That last word came out smaller than the others. “Please, Trevor.”
Sirens rang out somewhere beyond the trees after what felt like an eternity, and I almost collapsed.
“They’re coming, Trevor.” I squeezed his hand. “They’re coming, okay?”
His fingers didn’t move. The next few minutes disappeared. Paramedics. Camp staff. Campers gawking. People shouting. Someone pulled me backwards while they worked. Oxygen. Equipment. More fucking questions.
