Elsewhere on the ice.
Garrison Foster knelt on the frozen surface, his hands stacked over Professor Harrison's chest.
Thirty compressions, two breaths. Thirty compressions, two breaths.
His arms were practically numb, every downward thrust draining the absolute last dregs of his stamina. His shoulders shook, his fingers trembled, but his rhythm never wavered.
Josh Jace knelt beside him, keeping a desperate hold on Professor Harrison's wrist. The pulse was still non-existent. He refused to let go, terrified that if he did, the fragile, halted rhythm of life would never return.
"Where the hell is the Epinephrine?!" Garrison's voice suddenly spiked, a desperate, cracking sound pushed to its absolute limit. "Why isn't Diego back yet!"
Sloane Taylor stood up.
"I'll go look."
She had barely taken a step when two silhouettes emerged from the suffocating darkness—Wyatt and Cassandra.
They were completely drenched, their lips bruised purple from the cold, and their expressions looked entirely frozen over.
Wyatt walked straight to Garrison, crouching down to offer the two amber vials from his palm. The glass was clouded with condensation, still clinging to someone's body heat. He didn't say a word.
Garrison stared at the medication, then looked up at Wyatt's face. His eyes were bloodshot, but no tears fell.
His lips parted as if to say something, but he swallowed the words back down.
"Where is Diego?" Garrison asked, a deep frown creasing his brow.
He couldn't help but think how unreliable the man was; he knew he shouldn't have sent Diego for the meds!
Wyatt offered no response.
Behind him, Cassandra stood with her head bowed, her hands shoved deep into her pockets, her knuckles white.
"Save the Professor first," Wyatt rasped, his voice raw and brutally hoarse.
Garrison snatched the Epinephrine, tore open the packaging, drove the needle into the Professor's neck, and plunged the plunger.
He instantly resumed chest compressions. One after another.



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