42. FORTY-TWO
FORTY-TWO
The day had stretched longer than Kieran had expected.
Heat after heat. Bracket after bracket. Surfers paddling out, catching waves, paddling back. Scores posted. Eliminations. Advancements.
Rory barely survived the first round, but the semi-finals were different. He surfed as if the pressure had finally released, sharper, more aggressive, and finished second. Good enough.
And now, here they were, late afternoon, the sun already starting its drop toward the water, and Rory was in the finals.
Kieran was more nervous than Rory seemed to be. Which was saying something, because Rory had been tense all morning. But now, watching him paddle out for the final heat, he looked calm and focused. Like he’d found some quiet center and was holding onto it.
Samantha, on the other hand, was not calm.
She’d been cool all day, encouraging but measured, commenting on technique, explaining scoring to Kieran when he asked.
But Kieran had noticed that the longer the day went on, the more she started twirling her ponytail.
A nervous tic, maybe. Or just a habit she fell into when she was trying not to show how much she cared.
Now, watching Rory paddle out for the final heat, she was practically wrapping her hair around her finger in a continuous loop.
“He’s got this,” she said. More to herself than to Kieran.
“He does,” Kieran agreed.
Aubrey had fallen asleep an hour ago, sprawled on a beach towel with her bucket clutched in one hand. Samantha had covered her with a light blanket, shooing away seagulls that got too close.
The announcer’s voice crackled over the loudspeaker, calling the final heat. Two surfers. Thirty minutes. Best two waves counted toward the final score.
Kieran could see Rory out there. Blue board. Sitting up, straddling his board, bobbing gently with the swell.
Next to him, maybe fifteen feet away, was the other surfer, younger than Rory. Confident posture.
The whistle blew. The heat started.
Kieran’s heart was pounding. He didn’t know why he was so nervous. It was just a surf competition. Local. Nothing huge. But it mattered to Rory, which meant it mattered to him.
The first wave came. The younger guy caught it. Rode it clean, pulled off a decent cutback. Solid score, probably.
Rory let it pass. Waiting for the right one.
The second wave. Rory started paddling. Kieran leaned forward, hands gripping his knees.
Samantha had stopped twirling her hair. She was watching, motionless.
Rory caught the wave. Popped up smooth. Started carving, fast, aggressive, exactly the kind of surfing Samantha had said he needed to do.
He pulled off a snap turn near the top, spraying water. Kieran heard people around them cheering.
Rory rode it almost to shore before kicking out. Clean. Strong.
“Yes,” Samantha breathed.
Kieran exhaled. Hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath.
Rory paddled back out. Reset. Waited.
Ten minutes passed. A few more waves. The other surfer caught another one, decent but not spectacular. Rory let them pass, still waiting.
Kieran could see him out there. Patient. Focused. Waiting for the right one.
Then it came. A wave building on the horizon. Bigger than the others. Clean lines. Perfect shape.
Rory turned. Started paddling. Arms cutting through the water. Fast. Powerful.
He caught it. Popped up smooth. Board under his feet. Body low and centered.
He launched into an aerial. Board leaving the wave. Spinning. It was beautiful. Perfect.
The landing came down wrong. Hard. The board shot out from under him.
He went under.
Kieran waited for him to surface. Five seconds. Ten.
The wave rolled past, white water churning.
Where was he?
Fifteen seconds.
“Come on, Rory,” Kieran said. “Come on.”
Twenty seconds.
The other surfer was looking around. Confused. Looking for Rory.
Twenty-five seconds.
Kieran stood up. “Where is he?”
Samantha stood too, shielding her eyes.
Thirty seconds.
A whistle cut through the air.
Sharp. Urgent.
Kieran’s head snapped toward the sound.
Out on the water, something was wrong.
The other surfer was waving both hands above his head. Frantic. The universal signal for help.
The jet ski roared to life, cutting through the water toward him.
Kieran started moving without thinking. Samantha did the same.
“What’s happening?” Kieran asked.
“I don’t know.”
The jet ski reached the surfer. The responder leaned in, listening. The surfer pointed hard toward the break.
Toward a spot in the water.
Kieran’s stomach dropped.
“Where’s Rory?” he said.
Samantha didn’t answer. She was scanning the water, eyes moving frantically across the surface.
There—the blue board. Floating. Empty.
No Rory.
“Where is he?” Kieran said again, louder this time.
“I don’t know. I can’t see that far out.”
The jet ski was moving again, circling. The first responder was leaning over, looking down into the water.
Kieran’s pulse spiked. His hands went cold.
“He’s probably just under,” Samantha said, but her voice was tight. “He probably wiped out. He’s fine. He’s—”
The jet ski stopped.
The first responder dove into the water.
And Kieran’s world tilted.
“No,” he heard himself say. “No, no, no—”
Around them, people were starting to notice. Voices rising. Confusion spreading through the crowd.
The announcer’s voice came over the loudspeaker, trying to sound calm. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re experiencing a brief pause in the competition. Please remain calm while our safety team addresses the situation.”
Kieran couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. He kept staring at that empty board, floating alone in the water.
Samantha grabbed his arm. “He’s okay. He has to be okay. He’s a strong swimmer. He knows these waters.”
But her voice was shaking.
The first responder surfaced. He had Rory. Was pulling him toward the jet ski. Limp.
Samantha made a sound beside him. She was already moving toward the shoreline.
They got him onto the jet ski. The first responder climbed on behind him, revving the engine.
The jet ski turned toward the beach.
Kieran’s legs weren’t working right. Too slow. Too heavy. Everything was moving in slow motion except his heartbeat, which was going so fast he thought he might pass out.
The jet ski reached the shore. The first responder was already calling for medical, his radio crackling. Voice urgent.
Paramedics were running toward them, bags in hand. Moving fast.
Kieran pushed through the crowd, Samantha right behind him.
And then he saw Rory.
He wasn’t moving.
The first responder had him laid out on the sand, flat on his back. Rory’s wetsuit was still dripping. His hair plastered to his head. The necklace, his mom’s necklace, still around his neck, glinting in the sun.
But his eyes were closed.
One of the paramedics dropped to his knees beside Rory. Put his ear to Rory’s mouth. Two fingers to his neck.
“No pulse. Starting compressions.”
No.
The paramedic locked his hands together, positioned them on Rory’s chest, and pushed down. Hard.
The force of it made Rory’s whole body jerk. The silver chain bounced against his skin.
The paramedic was counting. “One, two, three, four—”
Another paramedic appeared with a bag valve mask. Tilted Rory’s head back. Two breaths.
Then back to compressions.
“Come on,” the paramedic muttered. “Come on.”
Kieran heard a sound. Realized it was coming from him. A whimper. Like a wounded animal.
Samantha’s hand found his arm. Gripped it. Hard.
Thirty compressions. Two breaths.
The necklace kept bouncing. Up and down. Up and down. With each compression that was supposed to restart Rory’s heart.
“How long?” one paramedic asked.
“Minute thirty. Get the AED ready.”
Someone was tearing open Rory’s wetsuit. Exposing his chest. Pale skin. A paramedic grabbed the St. Christopher and yanked. The chain snapped. He tossed it into the sand without looking.
Pads on his chest. Everyone back.
A mechanical voice. “Analyzing rhythm. Do not touch the patient.”
Kieran held his breath.
“Shock advised. Charging.”
No. God. No.
“Clear.”
Rory’s body convulsed. Arched off the sand.
Then he was still again.
“Resuming compressions.”
And they were back at it. Hard, rhythmic, desperate.
The crowd around them had gone silent. Everyone watching.
Samantha made a sound. A sob.
“I can’t watch,” her voice broke. “Aubrey. I can’t let her see this. I just can’t…”
But she didn’t move. She was frozen, watching them try to save her brother’s life.
Another cycle. Thirty compressions. Two breaths.
Please, Kieran thought. Please work. Please.
“Check pulse.”
The paramedic stopped. Fingers to Rory’s neck again.
Everyone waited.
Kieran’s heart was hammering so hard he thought it might burst.
“I’ve got a pulse,” the paramedic said. “Weak but there. He’s breathing. Barely, but he’s breathing.”
The relief lasted half a second.
Because Rory still wasn’t conscious. Still wasn’t opening his eyes.
They were moving fast now. Cervical collar. Backboard. Rolling him carefully, securing his head, his neck, his body.
“Possible head trauma,” one of them said. “Let’s move.”
They lifted the backboard. Started toward the ambulance.
Rory’s face was slack. Gray. Not his.
Samantha grabbed Kieran’s arm again. Her face was white. Tears streaming.
“Kieran.” Her voice was sharp. Controlled through sheer force of will. “I need you to listen to me.”
He looked at her. Could barely see her through his own tears.
“I need to get Aubrey. I can’t—she can’t see this. I need to get someone to watch her, and then I’m going to the hospital.”
Kieran nodded. Couldn’t speak.
“You go with him. Don’t leave him. Do you understand? Don’t leave him.”
“I won’t.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise.”
She squeezed his arm so hard it hurt. Then she ran. Back toward where Aubrey was sleeping, oblivious.
Kieran turned. The ambulance doors were still open. The paramedics were loading Rory inside.
He ran.
“Wait—I’m—I need to—”
One of the paramedics turned. “Family?”
“He’s my—” The words came out strangled. “I’m his—please.” Tears streamed down his face.
The paramedic looked at Rory’s unconscious form, then back at Kieran.
“Get in. Stay out of the way.”
Kieran climbed in. Sat on the bench. The doors slammed shut.
And then they were moving.
The ambulance lurched forward, siren wailing. Kieran gripped the edge of the bench, watching the paramedics work.
One was checking Rory’s vitals again. Blood pressure cuff. Pulse oximeter. The machines were beeping, numbers Kieran didn’t understand flashing on screens.
The other was on the radio. “Male, approximately 38 years old, surfing accident, possible head trauma, non-responsive at scene, GCS of 8—”
Kieran didn’t know what GCS meant. Didn’t know what any of this meant.
All he knew was that Rory wasn’t waking up.
“Rory,” Kieran heard himself say. “Rory, come on. Wake up. Please wake up.”
The paramedic closest to him glanced over. “Does he have any medical conditions we should know about? Allergies? Medications?”
“I don’t—I don’t think so. He’s healthy. He’s—” Kieran’s voice cracked. “He surfs all the time. He’s strong. He’s—”
“Okay, that’s good. That’s helpful.”
A paramedic was working at Rory’s arm now. Needle. Tape. Clear tubing. Rory didn’t move. Didn’t wake up. Didn’t do anything.
Kieran stared at his face. At the face he’d woken up next to this morning. The face that had smiled when Kieran gave him the necklace. The face that had looked so calm, so focused, paddling out to the final heat.
“Is he going to be okay?” Kieran asked. His voice sounded small. Childlike.
The paramedic didn’t look up from what he was doing. “We’re doing everything we can.”
That wasn’t an answer.
Kieran’s hands were shaking. His whole body was shaking.
He wanted to reach out, to find Rory’s hand and hold on, but the space was a chaotic tangle of wires and plastic tubes. Every time he flinched forward, a paramedic shifted, blocking his line of sight.
Paralyzed by the terrifying certainty that if he moved a single inch he’d be kicked out of the rig, Kieran just sat there.
Completely useless. Forced to watch.
The ambulance took a corner fast. Kieran had to brace himself.
“How much longer?” the first paramedic asked.
“Three minutes,” the driver responded.
Three minutes. That was all. Three minutes to the hospital.
Kieran stared at Rory. Willing him to move. To open his eyes. To say anything.
But he didn’t.
“Please,” Kieran whispered. Not to the paramedics. To someone else. Anyone else. God, the universe, his mom. “Please don’t take him. Please. I just—I need more time. We need more time.”
The ambulance turned again. Slowed. The siren went quiet.
“We’re here,” the paramedic said.
The doors flew open. Bright hospital lights. People in scrubs waiting, ready.
They were pulling the gurney out. Moving fast. Shouting medical jargon Kieran didn’t understand.
He jumped out after them. Followed. No one stopped him.
Through automatic doors. Down a hallway. The wheels of the gurney clattering.
“Trauma two,” someone called.
They turned into a room. Big. Bright. Full of equipment.
More people in scrubs appeared. A doctor. Nurses. All surrounding Rory.
Someone was cutting off his wetsuit. Someone else was attaching more monitors.
The doctor was asking questions. “How long was he under?”
“Unknown. At least thirty seconds, maybe more.”
“Any sign of spinal injury?”
“Possible. We immobilized him on scene.”
“Get me a CT. And page neuro.”
Kieran stood in the doorway. Frozen. Watching this nightmare unfold.
A nurse noticed him. “Sir, you can’t be in here.”
“He’s my—please. I need to be with him.”
“You need to wait outside.”
“I promised. I promised I wouldn’t leave!”
“Sir.” Her voice was kind but unyielding. “We need space to work. The best thing you can do for him right now is let us do our job. There’s a waiting room down the hall. Someone will come talk to you as soon as we know more.”
Kieran looked at Rory. At his still, pale face. At the organized chaos of doctors and nurses trying to help him.
“Okay,” he muttered.
The nurse guided him out. Closed the door behind him. And Kieran stood in the hallway.
Alone.