Of course not.
Rising to my knees, I traced my fingers over Duck’s chest, finding the bottom of his breastbone. Centering the heel of my left hand just above it, I braced my right on top of my left and pushed down using all my weight.
His sternum cracked loudly. I felt the crunch of his ribs as I started chest compressions. One. Two. Three—all the way up to thirty, and fast, too.
“Where’s my keychain?” I yelled, looking around. Painter dropped down next to me, handing it over. I found the little pouch I always kept attached to it, and pulled out a lightweight pocket CPR mask, slapping it over Duck’s mouth to protect myself from any diseases he might have. Then I gave him two powerful breaths, watching for his chest to rise and fall.
Time to start compressions again. I looked at Painter.
“You’re going to help me,” I told him. “I’ll do thirty compressions, then you’ll give him two deep breaths. Watch me this next time, then do exactly what I do. After five cycles, we’ll trade off—otherwise we’ll never make it.”
He nodded.
One. Two. Three. Four . . .
I could feel myself tiring already, which wasn’t a surprise. Real CPR wasn’t nearly as smooth and easy as they show on TV, and the compressions had to be deep if they were going to work. His organs needed oxygen, and every minute that passed, more heart muscle was dying.
By the time we traded off, my arms and back ached. I checked for his pulse. Still nothing.
“Is the ambulance coming?” I shouted.
“Yes,” Reese said. “But they’re at least another ten minutes out.”
Fuck. Stupid old man, having a heart attack in the middle of nowhere. Suddenly Duck vomited and I jerked back, grabbing Painter’s arm. “We have to roll him, otherwise he’ll drown on his own puke.”
Pushing Duck to his side, I let the disgusting fluid mixed with chunks of hot dog drain out of his mouth, then turned him back over. We weren’t safe yet.
“Okay, you can start again.”
Time seemed to blur after that—an endless cycle of compressions and breaths punctuated with pulse checks. We traded places again, and yet again, over and over until finally I checked his pulse and—
“Stop!” I shouted. “I’ve got something.”
Painter dropped back, panting as I listened for Duck’s breath. There it was. I dropped to my butt, exhausted but triumphant.
“He’s alive,” I said, feeling dizzy with relief.
“Coming through,” a man’s voice shouted. Reese pushed people out of the way as the EMTs came toward us, carrying their equipment.
“I’m an ER nurse,” I told them. “He was down about . . .”
Hell. I had no idea how long he’d been down.
“Twenty minutes,” Reese chimed in, his voice grim.
“Does he have a history of heart disease?” the EMT asked.
“No idea,” Reese answered. “He’s been at the doctor a lot lately, but didn’t tell anyone why.”
I felt someone catch my arm, pulling me away from Duck’s body. Painter.
“Good job,” he said softly. I nodded, because he was right—we’d done a hell of a good job. Wrapping an arm around my waist, Painter helped me over to the grass, where I lay down on my back, arm flopped over my eyes. He collapsed next to me, then Izzy ran up, crawling in between us.
“Is Uncle Duck dead?” she asked, obviously afraid. I cuddled her close.
“No, baby. But his heart is sick. They’re going to take him to the hospital and see if they can fix it.”