"Don't touch him."
My hands were pressed against a wet shirt, pushing rhythm into a ribcage that had stopped answering.
"Move back!" a cleaner shouted from the doorway. "This is a restroom—"
"Not now!" I snapped. "Chest compressions. Open his airway." My voice was all sharp commands. Someone had to do something that wasn't panic.
"He's not breathing," I told the woman holding a paper towel. "Call security."
"I did," she said. "They're on the way."
The kid's face was pale, mouth slack. He smelled like cheap cologne and french fries. I pressed again, counting in my head the way they taught us, not trusting the chaos to keep time.
A shadow cut over the stall. A man shoved the door. He wore a hoodie under a bomber jacket. He smelled like cigarettes and something metallic.
"Hands off," he said.
"Back off," I said. "I'm working."
He lunged like he wanted the kid to choke. He shoved my shoulder hard enough to spin me, to break the rhythm.
"Don't interfere with a job," he said. His voice was flat. He wasn't rough, he was efficient.
I planted my feet and shoved back. "You'll hurt him."
He kicked at the boy's legs. The kid twitched. I grabbed the man's wrist and twisted. He cursed and pulled his arm free, but I didn't let go. My training made the move smooth, stripped down. He surprised himself with how fast I
