Yells. Foot slaps. People coming, swarming.
I hear the angry jangle of a busted zipper as the tent flap is ripped open.
I notice, vaguely, that I’m holding him, hoisting him on his side so he won’t choke on his own vomit ifit comes to that.
“Someone call for an ambulance!” Wanda barks.
Someone runs off. Chowder lets loose a howl.
The air is thick and clogged with unwashed bodies, with death.
No. No. This can’t be happening.
“Teddy?” I ask as his eyes slow down and stop pinwheeling in their sockets.
I shake him. The foam is still bubbling at his lips, tiny fuzz bubbles still popping.
The crowd is a stew of mutters.
“I know CPR.” Wanda brushes me aside.
I stand with the others and watch, while Chowder trembles and winces into me.
It’s loud, the CPR, louder than I would’ve thought
