The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 111

Diego Solano was the first to rush over. He dropped beside Lilah Lane, pressing two fingers to her carotid artery—a faint pulse fluttered against his skin.

"She's breathing!" he shouted, wasting no time as he immediately began CPR.

Professor Harrison knelt on her other side, his voice calm and authoritative. "Tilt the head, lift the chin. Open the airway. Diego, pick up the pace. Josh, get the thermal blanket ready!"

Drenched to the bone, Coach Jensen crouched nearby, his eyes locked onto Lilah's face, fists tightly clenched. Wrapped tightly in the thermal blanket Josh had thrown over her, Sloane Taylor stood vigil as well, her lips blue from the biting cold, refusing to step away.

One compression. Two. Three.

Lilah's chest suddenly lurched.

She convulsed, coughing up a violent spray of seawater as her lungs desperately pulled in the freezing air.

"She's alive! She's alive!"

Diego collapsed backward into the snow, laughing in sheer relief despite the tears in his eyes. "Damn it, you scared the hell out of me..."

Lilah's eyelids fluttered open.

Her dazed gaze shifted from Professor Harrison to Diego, then drifted over to Coach Jensen and Sloane. It took a few seconds for the world to come into focus.

"Am..." Her voice was a broken, raspy whisper. "Am I dead?"

"Far from it," Professor Harrison replied, offering a rare, reassuring smile. "We managed to pull you back."

Tears instantly welled in Lilah's eyes.

She tried to sit up, but her drained body refused to cooperate. All she could do was lie there, looking at the faces circling her as hot tears slipped down her freezing cheeks.

"Thank you... thank you so much..."

Diego waved a dismissive hand. "Don't worry about it. Just lie still."

Coach Jensen crouched lower, his voice rough with lingering adrenaline. "You got lucky, kid. Be careful from now on."

Lilah nodded weakly, the tears coming faster now.

Sloane reached out, gently squeezing the girl's trembling, ice-cold hand.

"You're safe now," she murmured.

The words died in his throat.

The chair at the main console was empty. On the floor, a figure lay curled into a tight ball.

A loud splash echoed as Dawson dropped the coffees, the paper cups bursting against the tiles and soaking his pants with hot brown liquid.

He sprinted over and dropped to his knees.

Garrison Foster lay on his side, his face flushed with an unnatural, feverish heat. His lips were cracked and peeling, his brows knitted together in an agonizing nightmare.

He was wearing a rumpled lab coat over yesterday's dress shirt. The top two buttons were undone, exposing a sheen of cold sweat glistening against his collarbone.

"Dr. Foster! Garrison!"

No response.

Dawson reached out, pressing a hand against Garrison's forehead. It was scorching—hot enough to burn.

Trembling, Dawson fumbled for his phone and dialed the on-call nurse's station. "We have an emergency! Send a medical team to the top floor of the Education Building immediately! Project Vitas lab! Professor Foster has collapsed!"