“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.”
“What are his odds?” Painter asked. I considered the question.
“Depends,” I admitted. “I have no way of knowing how much damage he has or why he had a heart attack in the first place. If they get him to the hospital in good time—and they should be able to—they’ll run a catheter up his groin and check him out. If they find a blockage, they should be able to clear it and put in a stent. It’s a common procedure—he could be back home by tomorrow. That’s a best-case scenario, though. And he’s going to hurt like hell no matter what. I probably broke half his ribs.”
“Is it always like that?” he asked.
“Like what?”
“That . . . violent?”
I laughed. “CPR? Yeah. It’s not something you do for fun.”
“I’m tired,” Izzy announced. Me and her both.
“Most of the club will be heading down to the hospital,” Painter said. “But I think we need to go home. I’m wiped.”
“Sounds like a plan. I’ll make a few calls once we get there, see if they’ll give me any information. You think you could leave your bike out here, maybe drive us back?”
“Yeah,” he said, rolling over onto his elbow to look at me. “They’re all going to want to thank you—you’re a hero, Mel.”
I offered him a weak smile, then shook my head.
“Nope, I’m just a nurse. But remember tonight the next time we have a fight, okay? Because I know about a hundred different ways to kill you in your sleep, bring you back, and then do it all over again.”
His eyes widened, and Izzy laughed, clapping her hands.
Best. Kid. Ever.
THREE DAYS LATER
PAINTER
“What the hell are you doing here?” I demanded. I’d just pulled up to the Armory for an emergency church meeting, only to find Duck pulling up next to me. I’d been to visit him the day after his heart attack, so I knew he was doing all right, but it still startled me to see him here.
“We got church,” Duck said, frowning as he lumbered toward the building. “I always come in for the meetings. Although I had to drive a fuckin’ cage to get here.”
“Mel said she didn’t want you riding your bike for a couple weeks,” I reminded him. “Nothing strenuous, remember?”
“I know,” Duck growled. “And it’s fuckin’ killing me. But that new girl of mine has been takin’ good care of me. Seems damned unfair that when she gives me a sponge bath I can’t have my happy ending, though.”
“You don’t need sponge baths—you could just take a shower,” I pointed out reasonably. Duck smirked.