For whatever reason, this child was not receiving enough oxygen.

A cry in the distance: the child’s family raced toward them, both the mother and father exclaiming in panicked voices. Mustering her limited Spanish, Compton told them she was a doctor and that their little one wasn’t breathing well; would it be okay for her to try to help? Georgia intervened, managing to get a limited history, or lack thereof; the little girl, the mother told her, had no chronic health conditions and no recent illnesses or surgeries. Compton felt the child’s forehead.

Her skin burned with fever.

By now, a herd of bystanders clustered around them, jostling each other for a better view. At least three people held cell phone cameras aimed in their direction, trying, Compton supposed, to record this event in case they could generate a viral tweet about it later. Kira stood on the edge of the crowd, speaking rapidly into her phone. Compton slashed a hand through the air, motioning for everyone to get back, attempting at the same time to control her own choppy breathing enough to project authority. Please, she thought, inarticulate even to herself as a terrible grinding sound issued from the child’s throat. Please.

Hannah dropped to her knees next to them. “Does anyone have an asthma inhaler?” she called out. “Or an EpiPen?”

No one responded.

A sudden certainty struck Compton: this little girl was going to die in her arms. She didn’t have any means of administering oxygen; she didn’t have any way to intubate. She took in the child’s face; her closed eyes, the sweet curve of her lashes casting shadows against her round cheek. Air rattled through the puckered little rosebud of her lips, followed a moment later by a harsh, convulsive cough. A trickle of blood ran from the corner of her mouth. Compton stared at it, horrified. What was happening to this child?

Someone had already called for help; now, in the distance, a European siren aired its loopy shrill. Her friends gathered in front of her and Hannah. Kira’s thumbs flew over her phone. Beside her, Hannah’s lips moved in prayer. Georgia had wrapped her arms around the child’s mother, murmuring something to the distraught woman in Spanish; beside them, the father crouched with the other two children, all of them wide-eyed and silent, their faces so horribly blank they might have been dolls.

Moving as gently as she could, Compton flipped the child onto her side and then onto her stomach, supporting her neck and head. “Respira profundo, niña dulce,” she whispered into her ear.

Paramedics appeared and ushered Compton away as they started an IV and applied an oxygen mask to the child, easing her tiny body onto a stretcher. The last thing Compton saw was one foot, shoeless, splayed to the side of the gurney as it receded into the distance.

8

He Died the Hard Way

KIRA

BARCELONA, SPAIN