Page 118 of Dirty Mechanic
I can’t swim fast enough.
My arms are cinder blocks. My legs won’t kick right. And my son’s still underwater.
Annabelle slips from my grip, crawling up the riverbank on hands and knees, coughing water.
But I don’t stop. I reach the shallows, surge forward, slip in the mud and weeds, and fall at Misty’s side.
She’s curled tightly, arms around her belly, Blake’s hoodie soaked with blood.
I blink. That’s Blake’s hoodie.
Blake!
“I need to get Blake! Annabelle!” I scream out.
“He shot me,” Misty chokes. “He shot my baby.”
Her eyes flutter and roll back.
Annabelle’s voice cuts through from behind me: “I’ve got her! Go get Blake!”
I don’t hesitate. I dive.
This time, the cold punches me in the chest like a steel fist. Every breath is a war. Every kick, a losing fight against the current pulling me downstream.
I can’t see him.
Can’t see Blake.
But I know he’s out here. With fifty pounds of sand lashed to his feet.
I force my eyes open underwater. Murky shadows. Silt and leaves swirl like ghosts. My lungs scream. I scan in frantic jerks—left, right—until?—
There. A pale flash of fingers, reaching for nothing.
I grab him. He’s heavy. Too heavy. Dead weight.
His eyes are shut, lips parted, the rope cinched tightly around his ankles like a noose. I hook my arm around his chest and kick.
Hard. Up. Toward the light. Toward the surface. My lungs burn. The roar in my ears rings louder than the river.
We break through—but he doesn’t cough. Doesn’t breathe.
“Blake! Don’t you fucking dare!” I shout, hauling him toward shore with everything I’ve got.
My arms feel like they’re being ripped from their sockets.
His head lolls. Limp. Silent.
“No—no—nonono—” I drag him up the bank and drop to my knees. “Annabelle!” I bark.
She’s by Misty’s side, pained and drenched.
“Help me! He’s not breathing.”
She scrambles over and drops beside me. No hesitation. No words. She quickly rolls him onto his side, striking his back firmly to clear any water from his airway. Only then does she ease him flat again and begins compressions. Her hands move with practiced calm, but her eyes—God, her eyes—they’re glass-sharp and terrified. She counts out loud.
When she stops, I tilt his chin up and blow in two breaths.
