Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 98823 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 494(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98823 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 494(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
“Why is that cart driving like that? What’s wrong with the driver?” I barely had time to get the question out, let alone register that this was likely an emergency, before Duncan took off at a flat-out sprint.
“The cart’s headed for the pond,” Duncan yelled over his shoulder. “Ezra, call 911. Tell them we’ve got a probable cardiac event.”
Probable cardiac event. It took me another precious second to piece together what was happening—runaway cart, nonresponsive driver, looming water hazard. Fuck. This was bad. I sprang into action, yanking out my phone and doing what Duncan had said, heart so tightly wedged in my throat it was hard to get the words out for the 911 operator. I relayed the relevant details as somehow, someway, Duncan intercepted the cart, timing his approach perfectly to throw himself into the passenger seat like a human missile.
The cart careened closer to the pond as Duncan tried to wrest control of the steering wheel. At the last moment, the cart swerved on the bank of the pond, narrowly missing plunging into the water. Sand, mud, and water sprayed everywhere, especially all over Duncan and the man in the cart.
Not wasting any time, Duncan waded through the mud to the driver’s side of the cart and pulled the man free. Dad and I hurried over, and by the time we reached them, Duncan had already started CPR.
Mid-chest compressions, Duncan called out to my dad, “Bill, see if there is a defibrillator machine at the clubhouse and make sure someone there is ready to direct the EMTs this way. We’re at hole...”
“Eight,” I supplied, happy to know that much. I told the 911 operator that CPR had been started before the call ended so the ambulance could be dispatched. As Dad zoomed toward the clubhouse in our cart, I waded into the muck to approach Duncan and the victim. My chest had never been tighter. “Can I help? I know some CPR too. Had to take it in high school.”
“Okay.” Duncan didn’t even look up at me. I’d expected some sort of brush-off, but all he said was, “Rotate with me. You do the chest compressions now. Nice and steady.”
Kneeling over the older man, I did as Duncan directed, keeping it up until he called for us to switch. The man’s skin was a sickly greenish-gray, almost the same color as his short, silver hair. I tried my best to remember the steps for rescue breathing. Some ancient muscle memory kicked in, but this was no CPR dummy. Life or death adrenaline surged through me, making me lose all sense of time.
“EMTs are on the way.” My dad returned at some point, followed by a cart of golf course employees. “We’ve got the defibrillator.”
“Excellent. I’ve used one.” Duncan held out a hand, summoning the new arrivals closer.
“He’s a SEAL,” Dad explained to the course personnel who brought Duncan the machine.
“Clear,” Duncan yelled as soon as he had the machine in position. I slid back as he administered the shock. The man’s body convulsed, but nothing else happened. My own pulse surged like I was the one getting shocked.
“Again.” Duncan’s face was utterly stoic, as calm and determined as I’d seen him. “And again.”
“That’s three.” Next to me, Dad shook his head. “It’s not working.”
“It will.” I had to believe, for whoever this man was and for Duncan. He couldn’t fail. I held my breath as he tried a fourth time.
“Yes!” he shouted, eyes briefly squishing closed. “I’ve got a faint pulse. What’s the ETA on EMTs?”
“Any moment. Clubhouse says a crew just pulled in.” One of the golf course employees held up a large walkie-talkie.
Finally, the first responders arrived, a whole swarm of EMTs and firefighters. Duncan was able to move out of the way and give his report to the lead EMT while the others took over monitoring the victim and administering more help.
“You did good.” The dark-haired female EMT nodded at him. “We’ve got life flight on the way. ETA five minutes.”
There was a flurry of activity as the EMTs loaded the victim on a stretcher for transit, one of them using some sort of breathing bag.
“That looks like Herb Wilson,” a golf course employee yelled. “Someone needs to call his wife.”
“I’ve got her number.” My dad did that task, managing the same calm, patient tone he always had. I’d never been more impressed by him and Duncan both, the way they’d stepped up and kept their cool. Their presence kept me grounded.
“What do we do now?” I whispered urgently to Duncan, feeling helpless again as the EMTs worked on Herb.
“Pray.” Duncan’s mouth was a thin line etching his stony face.
I did just that as the sound of a helicopter filled the air. Herb was loaded up with amazing speed and precision.
“I think he might make it,” the lead EMT said to Duncan, raising her voice to be heard over the helicopter noise. “Thanks to you both.”