The Girl Who Kept Running

16. The Girl Who Left a Punch to the Heart

24 September, 2050

Jibran instantly recognized her as the girl following Rose Bovary late at night a few days ago. But at the moment her intentions seemed sincere; she might just save his brother's life.

"You give him the breathes. No way I'm touching that mouth," Roxie said as she took over the scene.

Jibran did, while Roxie quickly placed her hands on Rumi's chest, slightly above where the ribs meet--the heel of her lower hand on his breastbone, fingers interlocked the right way.

Like a cat, she repositioned her body, arms straight, somewhat rigid, to use the full force of her slim upper torso. She remembered the routine well, 30 compressions at about 100 beats per minute. Press down about 2 inches every time. After working like an automaton for several minutes, she yelled: "Don't you have anybody to call? I get it you don't want anyone who could report you! But I'm not gonna be here giving compressions all day. He's gonna die!"

Jibran sprang to his feet and ran a series of calls with his cell none of which got through. At last, someone picked up. Instantly, he moved away to the door where the street outside was empty. There was a staccato conversation in a lowered voice, eager and urgent. He came back to his post after a minute; the look of relief on his face suggested someone was coming.

"Can you look closely at how I am doing and copy me? My arms might need a break before help arrives. I'm out of practice."

"Sure."

"Here let me try," Jibran ventured after observing for two minutes.

"You have to do it exactly like this to be effective. We don't know when your contact will come. Is he a doctor?"

"He's trying to bring a paramedic with him."

"Trying? Do you love your brother?" she was quick to counter.

Anxious, Jibran wet his dry lips with a quick swipe of his tongue and took out his phone again. This time, there was even more urgency in his voice, some real pleading. He came back and sat across from her.

Roxie let him take over when Ida brought her some water.

At last, the paramedic arrived with another African kid in tow who slipped on the floor beside the older guy, and held him for support like a friend. The paramedic had the right equipment with him and he worked in step with the girl as they alternated between shocks and compressions. It was after the third that Rumi's eyes rolled over into an inkling of consciousness. The paramedic muttered something to the effect that they might have been just in time to prevent brain damage and told Roxie to go relax.

She was exhausted, having done ten cycles of compression in total, with thirty presses in each one. She left the scene taking off the gloves that she had slipped on fresh before heading out of the kitchen.

Back inside, Ida sat her down in a seat by the small square window near the back door, in the path of the breeze. Pulpy orange juice was her return for the labor, squeezed fresh with Ida's own hands as the lady admitted nonchalantly. A Golabki, a veggie one the girl had cooked herself, was next served in the way of refreshment.

It felt nice.

Roxie let out a happy sigh of relief. The symphony of voices now drifting in from out there assured her that things were on the up side with the boy. She could now dive carefree into the first cabbage roll of her life.

***

"So ... Roxie?"

She started, making her purse drop. Money spilled on the kitchen floor.