She dropped her backpack without ceremony and knelt. Two fingers to the carotid artery. Nothing. No pulse. No effective breathing. She didn’t announce it theatrically. She just moved. Her hands locked together, heel of the palm centered over sternum, elbows straight, shoulders stacked — and she began compressions with the precision of someone whose muscle memory had been forged in places where hesitation meant funerals.
Hard. Fast. Consistent. The aide hovered uselessly. “Sir, are you trained?” a security officer asked, voice tight.
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