Anderson's hands, trembling yet firm with the muscle memory of urgency and desperation, pressed against Layla Smith's unmoving chest, his fingers spreading instinctively to ensure the force was distributed evenly across her ribcage as he pushed down, hard and fast, the weight of his entire body shifting forward with each compression, his locked elbows absorbing the impact, his breath steady but his pulse hammering, his mind a storm of calculation and fear, counting—one, two, three—forcing himself to follow the rhythm drilled into him long ago, the rhythm that should have meant survival, should have meant salvation, should have meant life returning where it threatened to slip away. But the more he pressed, the more the world around him blurred, the Alaskan wilderness dissolving into something else, something from years ago, something that had buried itself so deep inside him that he had almost, almost managed to forget—until now.
Because as he leaned over Layla, willing her back into existence, the curve of her face, the pale of her lips, the weight of her stillness, all began to shift, to reshape, to melt into the memory of another body beneath his hands, smaller, lighter, the fragile bones of a child instead of the full form of a woman, the wetness on her skin no longer the cold river water but the chemically treated blue of a swimming pool, the scent of damp earth fading into the sharp, artificial sting of chlorine, the vast sky above him collapsing into the suffocating enclosure of fluorescent lights flickering against white tile, and suddenly, he was no longer here, no longer kneeling beside Layla Smith in the fading afternoon, no longer battling for her life—but somewhere else, somewhen else, kneeling at the edge of an overfilled swimming pool in Anchorage, the cries and laughter of children fading into a deafening silence that made his own heartbeat sound like a drum pounding inside his skull, because the body beneath him, this small, lifeless body, had once been warm, had once been alive, had once belonged to a young boy.
One.
Two.
Three.
Come back to me, please.
His hands had moved with the same urgency then, pressing against his brother's tiny chest, the wet fabric of the boy's rash guard clinging to his fingers as he counted each compression, counted like the numbers could anchor him in reality, counted because if he didn't, if he let himself think, let himself feel, let himself acknowledge the horror taking shape before him, he would lose control, would break apart, would collapse under the weight of knowing that his hands—the hands meant to save—might not be enough, might never be enough.
Twenty-eight.
Twenty-nine.
Thirty.
Come back to me, please.
His mouth sealed over his brother's, the bitter taste of chlorine mixing with the salt of tears—his own, though he hadn't noticed them falling—and he breathed, not too hard, not too soft, just enough, just the right amount, just like they had taught him, just like it was supposed to be done, but the boy's chest barely rose, barely moved, barely responded, and something inside Anderson cracked, something raw and primal and helpless, because he knew, even then, even as he fought against it, that he was losing him, that his little brother was slipping through his fingers like water, like air, like something never meant to be held onto for too long.
One. Two. Three. I have to press harder and keep the same pressing speed.
He had done everything right. He had followed every rule. And still, still, his brother's eyes never opened again.
Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine. Thirty. I had to give him two blows.
And when it was over, when the finality of it crashed over him, when the silence stretched into eternity, when the weight of failure settled deep into his bones, he had asked himself the question that would haunt him forever.
Why do the drops of swimming pool water taste salty?
Because they were mixed with grief.
Because they were his own tears.
Because this was the moment he had learned what it truly meant to lose someone, not in the way of temporary absence, not in the way of childhood misunderstandings or fleeting separations, but in the irreversible, unforgiving way that death demanded, in the way that left nothing but an empty space where love had once lived, in the way that carved a wound into his soul that would never fully heal.
And then—
"Stop! Stop your CPR! She opened her eyes!"
The voice tore through the memory like a jagged knife slicing through fabric, like a sudden downpour breaking the suffocating stillness before a storm, like the screech of tires on wet pavement in the final second before impact, and Anderson jolted, his breath catching, his body still frozen in the position of compression, his mind lagging behind reality as if the past still had its claws in him, still refused to let him go.
His eyes, blurred with the remnants of memory, focused downward, and for a moment, he was afraid to look, afraid to see another unmoving face, afraid to confirm what his body already knew, that he had failed again, that history had repeated itself, that no matter how much he fought, how much he struggled, how much he gave, he would always be too late, always be—
But then he saw them.
The eyes.
Not closed. Not empty. But open, wide, staring straight at him, large and round and impossibly dark, reflecting the golden remnants of the dying Alaskan sun, reflecting his own shadow hunched over her, reflecting life—breathing, pulsing, undeniable life.
And yet, even as relief flooded him, even as his hands trembled from the aftermath of exertion, even as the world slowly began to reassemble itself around him, something inside him remained stuck, remained trapped in that other moment, in that other place, in that other time where the eyes had never opened, where the breath had never returned, where the boy had never woken up.
Because no matter how many lives he saved, no matter how many times he succeeded, no matter how many bodies he brought back from the edge, there would always be the one he couldn't.
And that, more than anything, was the truth he would never escape.
His younger brother never came back.