Free Arcadia (Book 1): Damn The Dead by Phillip Tomasso

some lunch somewhere. That was it.
    She shook her head, unable to say that, no, Anna was not breathing.
    “They want you to lay her flat on her back,” the man said.
    Grace stared at the man. “She is!”
    “Make sure there is nothing in her mouth. Place your hand on her forehead, and the other under her neck.”
    Grace opened Anna’s mouth and stuck her finger in and under the tongue. “There’s nothing in there. Nothing.”
    People on the street crowded around them. The spectacle taking place drew their attention when her simple pleas for someone to call 911 went initially unanswered. She hated people. Hated them.
    “I don’t know CPR,” she said. “I don’t know what to do!”
    “They’re going to talk us through this, okay? They want me to tell you you’re doing good. I’m going to tell you how to give mouth-to-mouth. With her head carefully tilted back, pinch her nose closed and completely cover her mouth with your mouth, then blow two regular breaths into the lungs, about one second each, just enough to make the chest rise with each breath. Did you feel the air going in and out?”
    Grace did as instructed. “Yes.”
    “Did you see her chest rise and fall with each breath?”
    “Yes.”
    Grace closed her eyes. Her vision was blurred with tears.
    “Put the heel of your hand on the center of her chest between her nipples. Then put your other hand on top of that one. You’re going to push down on her chest. About two inches. Let the chest come all the way back up. We’re going to do this thirty times, twice per second, and then another breath, and repeat, okay?”
    Grace went through the instructions again in her head. “Where is the ambulance?”
    “It’ll be here. It’s coming. They said it’s on the way, and you’re doing great—”
    “I’m not doing great! I’m not,” she said. Grace did not mean to yell at the only man willing to help her. This was not his fault.
    He held up one hand, perhaps meant to calm her. In a way it did, but not as much as when he knelt down on the opposite side of Anna and put the phone to his chest and spoke just to Grace. “We’re going to get through this okay? I want you to start the compressions, and I am going to count them off, okay? Thirty compressions, two per second, and then a breath.” He put the phone back to his ear.
    His talking helped. It kept her calm, focused. “Okay.”
    “One, two, three,” he said.
    It seemed like she was pushing too hard, going too fast. Something snapped inside Anna. “Oh, Jesus. Jesus,” Grace said.
    “She broke something,” the man said into the phone. “We heard it. We heard something break.”
    Grace dropped over her daughter. She couldn’t keep it together. She couldn’t do this. “Anna, baby. Anna, breathe, honey. Breathe.”
    “Listen, listen,” the man said, he had a hand on her shoulder. “It’s okay. You can’t stop. You have to keep doing this.”
    “I broke her ribs,” she said.
    “That happens,” he said.
    “Anna!”
    The man pulled Grace off her daughter.
    “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
    He dropped his cell phone, pushed up the sleeves on his jacket, and set his hands on Anna’s chest. He didn’t hesitate. He started compressions and counted them off out loud. His own breathing matched each thrust. Short, quick breaths.
    Grace watched, but couldn’t stand seeing her little girl’s body cave inward with each compression. She looked lifeless, fake. He was going to kill her.
    She didn’t stop him. She didn’t help him. She couldn’t help him. Grace felt paralyzed.
    Someone draped an arm around her shoulder. An elderly woman sat next to her. She looked frail, deflated. Her skin was marked with brown spots. The woman did not say a word, but continued to pat her on the back softly.
    The first responders on scene was the city fire department. An engine pulled up, lights flashing, sirens off; five men climbed out of the red machine. They wore helmets with turnout gear