A Million Suns (Across the Universe 2)

Push, push. Push, push. Push, push. Push, push. Push, push. Push, push.

Nothing.

Pushpushpushpushpushpushpushpushpushpushpushpushpushpush.

God, why isn’t this working?! Am I doing it right? I can barely remember that one hour of CPR training so long ago—what if I’m hurting him?

I lower my head to breathe into his mouth again. I have to swallow back a sob. I won’t cry.

He’s not dead. I won’t let him be dead.

Puff!

I lean up to take some more air—and I feel, just barely—a whiff of breath coming from Elder. I lean down, my cheek next to his lips—and I can feel it. Air. His chest rises and falls, rises and falls. I move down, pressing my face against his body.

I can feel the thud of his heartbeat, weak, but beating, beating, beating with life.

I rest my head on his chest, relishing in the warmth of him, in the sound of his body, still alive.

41

ELDER

“UHHRRR,” I GROAN. MY CHEST FEELS AS IF SOMEONE CRACKED it open and then taped it shut again.

“Elder!” Amy leans over me.

“What happened?” My voice is alien to me, high. My nose is cold on the inside—there’s a tube blowing air up into it.

“I think you died a little bit,” Amy says. She tries to laugh, but the sound fades on her lips. Her eyes are red, as if she’s either been crying too much or needs to cry but hasn’t yet.

I lie still for a moment, assessing myself. I’m in the Hospital. “I feel like shite,” I conclude.

“Yes, that’s what happens when you die for a little bit. ”

Amy starts to head to the door, but I grab her wrist. “Don’t go. ”

“I should get Doc,” she says. “He’s been waiting for you to wake up. ”

“Not yet,” I say. I slip the tube under my nose off my face.

“Don’t do that,” Amy says. “It’s oxygen. ”

“I’ve got enough now, see?” I take a big, obvious breath and disentangle myself from the tube.

Her brows furrow, but she allows me to pull her down so she’s sitting on the edge of the bed. I bite my lip, then release it—my lips are sore and feel bruised. I can taste copper along the soft flesh.

“I thought I was going to lose you,” Amy whispers. Her fingers trail down the side of my cheek, lightly brushing the place where my face is still bruised from Stevy’s punch a few days ago. Her fingers are cool, her touch so soft I barely feel it.

“I’m fine. ” I smile wryly. “Better than fine. ”

“Are you really okay?” she asks, moving a piece of hair off my face.

“Amy,” I say, taking a deep breath and relishing the taste of air. “Amy, we’re here. We’re at the planet. We’ve made it. ”

Her brow crinkles.

“That’s what I saw when I went outside. I saw Centauri-Earth. ”