Page 2 of A Vintage of Regret
“Yeah. Yeah, I can,” Bryson’s voice cracked.
“Lay him flat on his back if he isn’t already. Place your hands in the center of his chest—one on top of the other,” the man on the other end said.
Bryson positioned himself, hands trembling. He’d taken CPR. Got recertified every year.
But damn, he’d never had to do this for real.
“Push hard and fast, two inches deep. I’ll count with you—ready?”
“Yes,” he whispered.
“One, two, three…”
He pressed, over and over, feeling the weight of every beat. Sweat gathered at his temple. His knees dug into the damp earth. The dispatcher’s voice continued, calm but urgent, guiding him through it.
But Sean didn’t move.
Didn’t cough. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.
Bryson kept going, even as hope started to fade. The sun hurled its face over the horizon—the field growing brighter and brighter. Time ticked by. His pulse beat disturbingly fast, butevery movement proved slow and painful. The distant wail of a siren cut through the silence, drawing closer.
“They’re almost there,” the dispatcher said. “You’re doing everything right.”
A few minutes later, the EMTs arrived, rushing across the rows, gear in hand. Bryson stumbled back, giving them space as they dropped beside Sean, one checking his vitals while the other began chest compressions without missing a beat.
They didn’t speak much. Just quick, efficient commands to each other.
“O2 in.”
“Starting bag.”
“Charging pads—clear.”
Bryson stood frozen, hands clenched at his sides as they worked. He could still hear the dispatcher’s voice faintly buzzing from the phone in the grass. A third medic rolled the gurney in.
Even after the defibrillator fired, there was no response.
“Pulse?”
“Still nothing. Continue CPR.”
“Copy.”
Minutes passed—five, maybe more. Then one of them finally looked up. Not with finality. Just with grim resolve.
“We’re transporting him now,” the medic said, glancing over his shoulder. “Are you family?”
Bryson released a slow, shaky breath. “His boss. His friend,” he said faintly. At one time, he thought he would have been his son-in-law, but that ship sailed away years ago.
“Can you contact his family? Let them know we’re taking him to Stone Bridge Medical?”
“Yes,” was all Bryson could manage.
They worked quickly, lifting Sean onto the gurney and strapping him down with practiced care. One of the medics climbed in beside him, still performing compressions while asecond hopped into the back, adjusting equipment. The third medic quickly closed the ambulance doors and raced around the vehicle.
The siren wailed again as it pulled away down the gravel road toward the main drag.
Bryson stood in the clearing, Sean’s hat still lying in the dirt beside his feet. A chill settled in Bryson’s chest that had nothing to do with the fog. Sean had been a constant in Bryson’s life. Through losing Riley, through every triumph and failure in the vineyard. The older man had offered guidance without judgment, love without condition.
