The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 200

"Garrison,"

Sloane's voice suddenly shifted, carrying a desperate plea he had never heard from her before. "You have to save Professor Harrison. He's freezing to death! He saved all his glucose for us and didn't eat a single thing..." Her voice trembled, but she forced every word out with absolute conviction. "Please, save him."

Garrison didn't answer. He was already crouching beside Professor Harrison. He unzipped the sleeping bag, pulled open the professor's down jacket, and pressed a hand flat against his chest. He paused for a moment before standing up.

"Get him into the cabin! Cassandra, crank the heat up to the max."

Working together, they hoisted the professor up. Diego supported his head, Garrison held his waist, and Cassandra lifted his legs. Professor Harrison's body was dangerously limp, his arms dangling and swaying lifelessly with every step.

Once inside the cabin, Cassandra flattened a seat. Garrison carefully laid the professor down and immediately sprang into action.

He stripped off the professor's clothes, peeling away the wet, frozen fleece. Then, he wrapped a thermal blanket tightly around him, exposing only his chest. Positioning himself beside the seat, Garrison stacked his hands over Professor Harrison's sternum and began CPR. One, two, three. Each compression was deep and forceful, his shoulders driving the motion while his arms trembled with the effort.

"One, two, three, four—"

Professor Harrison's head lolled to the side, completely unresponsive. His lips were still a terrifying shade of purple. His chest rose and fell under the sheer force of the compressions, but his breathing remained nonexistent.

"Professor..."

Diego stood nearby, his hands balled into tight fists, a suffocating wave of despair washing over him. "Wake up, Professor, please..."

Sloane stood in the doorway of the cabin, gripping the frame so hard her grip was iron-tight.

She stared at Professor Harrison's ashen face, at the sweat dripping down Garrison's forehead, and at Diego, who looked like he was on the verge of breaking down. A splitting headache tore through her skull, but she refused to step away.

"Epinephrine," Garrison demanded without looking up.

Cassandra dug a disposable syringe out of the medical kit, tore open the packaging, and handed it to him.

Epinephrine was a strictly controlled substance. Garrison had pulled several major strings back in Argentina just to secure three vials.

He took the syringe, popped off the cap, and secured the professor's neck with one hand to find the right spot. With his other hand, he drove the needle in.

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