In the photo, a woman knelt in the mud, her hands pressed to his son’s chest, performing CPR.

Wrapped tightly around the boy’s bleeding arm, serving as a tourniquet, was the missing piece of white fabric from the very shirt I was wearing.

Owen Rusk’s face went from pale to a sickly, ashen gray. His mouth opened, but nothing came out.

The man who’d just called me a vindictive, unstable line worker was staring at the person whose bloodied hands had kept his child’s heart beating thirty minutes ago.

I held his gaze, my expression flat. “Call the dock, Mr. Rusk. We have eight minutes left.”

Chapter 5 — The Machine Chokes

If you’ve never seen a powerful, arrogant man shatter into a million pieces, it’s a terrifying and humbling sight.