Nothing. Water leaks from his mouth. We roll him on his side again and pound his back. Then I take over.
“He’s not?—”
“He will live,” I growl, slamming down on his chest harder. “He’s not fucking dying today.”
We keep going. Two more rounds.
My arms ache, but I don’t stop. This is my son. My responsibility. The one thing I swore to keep safe.
And here I am—breathing life into lungs that shouldn’t be still, because I couldn’t stop the Bishops.
“Come on,” I whisper. “Come back to me, Blake.”
He coughs a ragged, wet gasp that sprays river water across my chest.
“Blake!”
Relief floods my chest, stealing my breath before I can catch it.
“Jesus Christ.” I pull him into my lap. “Don’t ever do that again.”
Annabelle sobs beside me, collapsing onto the grass. “He’s okay?”
“Breathing,” I rasp. “He’s breathing.”
She crawls forward, presses a kiss to his muddy forehead.
Blake coughs again. Then croaks, “That was the worst pig bath ever.”
I laugh. Half hysterical, because Misty’s injured, and her face is losing color by the second. My throat clamps.
Annabelle’s already crawling toward her.
Misty’s slumped against a tree. Her jeans are soaked through, and blood’s pooling under her thighs. That’s too much blood. Her hands clutch her belly. Her hoodie’s been hiked up, like she tried to check herself and couldn’t.
I stumble toward her, slipping in the mud.
“Misty. Talk to me. Where’s the wound?”
She tries to sit, but fails.
“Rick shot me,” she breathes. “I think—” Her voice cracks. “I think I lost the baby.”
“No,” I whisper. “No, you didn’t. You’re gonna be fine. It’s just a graze, okay?”
But I know it’s not just a graze. She’s gone white. Bloodless. And the blood pooling around her belly’s too dark. Too fast.
I strip off my flannel and press it hard to her abdomen.
She whimpers and grabs my arm. “Derek—if something happens?—”
“Nothing’s happening,” I snap. “You’re not dying, and Blake’s not drowning, and fucking Rick Bishop’s not getting away with this.”
I glance at Blake. He’s lying on his side now, barely conscious.
I grab my phone. No bars. Of course.
I tear off my undershirt and fold it over Misty’s stomach to try to slow the bleeding.
