To Richard, success was everything. Feelings were distractions he’d learned to bury long ago.
Midway through the flight, as Amara leaned against the window watching clouds drift like cotton below, the calm shattered.
A man gasped.
A woman screamed.
“Someone help him!”
Flight attendants rushed forward, tension sharpening their voices.
“Is there a doctor on board?”
No one answered.
Before she could think, Amara unbuckled her seatbelt and ran.
She pushed past startled passengers until she reached the center of the commotion. Richard Hawthorne was slumped in his seat, one hand clawing at his chest. His skin had turned ashen, his lips tinged blue.
“I can help!” Amara cried out.
A flight attendant froze. “Sweetheart, you need to go back to—”
“I know what to do!” Amara insisted. “Lay him down. Tilt his head back!”
She dropped to her knees, placed her small hands on his chest, and began counting aloud.
“One… two… three… breathe.”
Her voice shook, but her hands didn’t. She moved exactly the way her mother once had at the free clinic where she worked—movements Amara had watched hundreds of times.