Girl Underwater Read Online Free PDF Page A

Only when the clouds part again and the moon filters through the haze do I see the trees up ahead, yawning over the lake like ghosts.
    On the brink of total exhaustion, my foot hits something. Rocks, pebbles.
    Shore.
    Colin reaches dry land first, then runs back into the water to help me. He hoists the boys out of my arms, and one of them starts wailing. But the other boy, the one in the vibrant, torn kurta, doesn’t so much as stir in Colin’s arms.
    â€œBreathe,” Colin says, as he lays him down. “You gotta breathe.” He gets down on his knees and gives the boy a gentle breath, careful not to damage his tiny lungs. I pump his chest with one hand as my father taught me—up and down, up and down—while Colin breathes for him. After two minutes, we switch. The older boy has stopped crying, but he watches us with naked horror.
    Then, a shudder. A wet, feeble cough. I scoop him up, stroking his face as his mother would have done. The color returns to his cheeks.
    â€œYou’re okay,” I whisper. “You’re okay.” I rock him for a long time, telling myself that we saved him and three others and that should be enough. But the truth is, it’s not enough. Not even close. As the wing sinks beneath the surface, releasing a slow gurgle as it disappears, I can’t help but think about the two hundred souls we left behind.
    Colin gives my shoulder a gentle shake. “Are you okay?”
    â€œYes,” I say, dazed. “Are you?”
    He nods, though I’m not entirely convinced this is the truth.
    With the boys watching, Colin reaches into his pocket and pulls out a penlight. A surprisingly robust white beam scatters across the water, finally coming to rest on the face of the oldest boy, tall and thin with pale green eyes. He allows the tiniest of smiles.
    â€œIs that a . . .”
    Colin nods. “Penlight. Found it in a seat-back pocket.”
    â€œWow.”
    Colin hands it to me, and I shine the light on each of the boys again, just to triple-check they’re okay. Then I flash it on Colin, and the air leaves my lungs.
    His leg is a bloody, mangled mess, the pant leg shredded below the knee. I lean over it, inhaling a whiff of blood and lake water. He tries to shrug it off, but this is no minor scrape. No wonder he was so dazed after impact. He’s lost a lot of blood.
    â€œCan I have a look?” I ask.
    â€œIt’s fine. I can walk on it.”
    â€œIf it makes you feel better, I have a little bit of training in, uh, this kind of stuff.”
    â€œPlane crash injuries?” His wince betrays the hint of a smirk.
    â€œSort of.” I try to sound as nonthreatening as possible. “Just a quick look.”
    He reluctantly offers his leg, which looks like a ragged piece of meat under the light. It’s a mess of blood, gristle, and muscle, probably the result of a stray piece of debris. At least the bones look intact—nothing broken, at least not from what I can see. And he didn’t nick an artery: no spurts of blood, no high-velocity gushes. I’ve seen arterial wounds on Take Your Daughter to Work Day—which for me was Traumatize Your Daughter at Work Day. Now I’m starting to understand why my father made me watch all those gruesome trauma activations.
    â€œI can’t see how you can walk on this—”
    â€œI can,” he says. “I just did.”
    The look on his face ends the discussion. We round up the crowd, encouraging the boys to walk if they can. The pregnant woman, who looks even more pregnant on dry land, is still unconscious. Colin drapes her over his shoulder like he’s carrying a heavy burlap sack. He tries hard not to limp, but it’s a struggle. With blood oozing from the wound, he finally agrees to let me dress it. I use a scarf that washed up on shore and pray it holds.
    The air, at least, is oddly still. The only signs of wind are the rustling of leaves and small waves