The ambulance rocks with every turn, a constant vibration running through the stretcher, through her body, into his hands
Hands centered on her chest, one over the other, fingers interlaced. Arms locked. Shoulders directly above his wrists. He takes a breath. Then he starts.
The chest compresses under his weight, firm but controlled.
The rhythm settles quickly—steady, mechanical. Each compression is identical to the last. Depth consistent. Pace unwavering. His body moves as one unit—core, shoulders, arms—driving straight through the center of the chest and releasing just enough to allow it to rise again.
It’s barely audible, lost between breaths and motion.
Her body responds only in the way physics allows—the chest giving under pressure, rising again, passive, dependent on his force. No resistance. No help.
Sweat gathers at his temple, but he doesn’t slow. He can’t.
The monitor beside them continues its uncertain rhythm, but he doesn’t look at it. Not yet. His focus stays exactly where his hands are—where life should be.
Time fractures into repetitions. There is no past, no future. Only the next compression.