Page 96 of Deliverance

“We can handle it. Trust me, you’re tired. You need to stop. You need t?—”

“I need you to shove that shit up her nose and get her back. I’ll stop when she’s awake and breathing,” I snarl.

He seems surprised by the venom in my tone before he scoots beside me, thankfully choosing to work with me, not against me.

Lining up the nozzle to her right nostril, he pushes it in and sprays. We both sit there, waiting for something to happen. Anything. We get her loaded up onto the gurney before I jump on top of her, straddling her so I can keep giving her CPR when he shares an uneasy look with one of the guys.

“Get me another.”

We’re moving down the hallway and into the elevator when I see Maryia staring at me with wide eyes.

“I’ll meet you at the hospital,” she says.

I nod as the elevator doors close. When they reopen, I see the ambulance parked just outside the dorm doors. Swarms of people are gathered around, curious as to what is going on. A collective gasp sounds when we push through the door, and everyone sees who is on the gurney. If she lives, she’s going to fucking hate that everyone saw her like this.

I have no choice but to get off her for a moment so they can load her into the rig. As soon as I’m able, though, I’m right back to it. My arms are weak, my breathing labored, and I’m already exhausted. I’ve only been doing CPR for six minutes, but it feels like six hours.

“One more Narcan,” the paramedic says as he lines it up into her other nostril.

“How far are we from the hospital?” I ask as the ambulance takes off.

“Two minutes,” he says. “Can I take over?” he asks as he gestures to her chest.

I shake my head, and surprisingly, he doesn’t argue. Instead, he begins taking down any data he can.

“How old is she?” he asks.

“Twenty-one. Her name is Bridgette Brenton.”

“Are you her friend…or…?” he trails off.

“Stepsister,” I say as I continue.

He nods. “We’re pulling up now. She’s gonna be okay, alright?”

I can’t help but snort out a bitter laugh. I don’t say anything and neither does he until the back doors are opened and he begins speaking to a doctor.

“Bridgette Brenton, twenty-one year old female. Found unresponsive at the scene, no pulse, believed to be opioid overdose. Two rounds of Narcan delivered, no response. Last round administered two minutes ago. GCS three.”

“Alright, bed three. You know the drill,” a woman orders as they unload Bridgette. “Why is a civilian doing CPR?”

“She won’t stop,” the paramedic says, like I’m not right here.

“Well, she needs to,” she says as we begin walking. “Sweetheart, you need to stop.”

“No,” I say as I continue pumping, sweat dripping down my face.

“Yes,” she argues. “We’ve got her, okay. We’ve got her.”

I feel hands grab me, pulling me away, and I scream. The paramedic hushes me and the doctor climbs onto the gurney, continuing compressions as they rush her through the doors of the ER. I feel exhaustion slam into me as I scream and sob, forcing myself to push through it.

“Hey, hey. Easy, easy. It’s okay. They’ve got her. Okay?”

“How many times have you gotten someone back after they have been down for an unknown amount of time and two rounds of Narcan that do nothing? I’m not a fucking doctor, but I live in a country that is facing an opioid epidemic. I’m not stupid,” I say as my lip wobbles and a sob rips through me.

He gives me a sympathetic look and gestures inside.

“C’mon, I’ll show you where the waiting room is.”