"Help—he's blue!" a woman screamed as a wet boy was dragged up the stones.
"Get him here," a man barked. "Someone breathe on him! Do something!"
"I can do it," I said. I didn't know why my voice sounded so calm. It felt like muscle memory.
"She's an outsider," another voice said. "We don't need—"
"Move," I snapped. "Give me space."
They stepped back. The boy's lips were purple. Water ran from his hair into the river. He wasn't breathing.
"Lean his head," I ordered. "Open his mouth. Clear his airway."
Two hands obeyed. A small woman wiped the mouth, then froze when my fingers sorted the debris. I swept, pinched the nose, sealed my mouth over his.
"Come on, Rex," I said. "Breathe."
The first breath didn't come. I gave two quick rescue breaths, then started compressions hard and fast where his ribs met the sternum.
"Press here. Harder," I ordered. "Three breaths, thirty compressions."
"Thirty?" a man asked, incredulous.
"Do it," I said.
He counted. Villagers watched like they watched storms. No one moved until the boy coughed.
He coughed once. Then again. Water spat from his mouth. His color came back in pieces, like paint returning to a white board.
"He's coughing," the small woman cried. "He's breathing!"
"Keep compressions until his breathing is steady," I said, but my hands had already eased. He gasped, then sobbed.
"Rex!" the woman cried. She fell to her knees and
