E L A R A

Late afternoon, Bluefire Lagoon lights up. The glass docks emit a steady blue from below and pull visitors toward the water. Phones go up. People spread out along the rails.

I walk the line where the dock meets water and count my breaths. I am checking footing, gaps, signage, guardrails. A boy slips.

It happens fast. Wet sandals. Smooth glass. He tips. His fingers hit the rail and miss. He falls sideways into the water. The sound is a flat slap.

His mother screams his name. Bystanders freeze.

“Hey!” I drop to my knees. “You—red shirt—press the emergency call. You—white visor—bring towels. As many as you can carry.”

The boy surfaces, coughing hard. His inhale is wrong. He is pulling water and air together. The lagoon is only waist-deep here, but depth does not stop drowning. Seconds matter.

I step into the water up to my ribs. It is cold. I ignore the cold. I hook my hands under his armpits and lift. His feet skid on the glass. I got him onto the dock.

“Stay with me,” I say. “We are going to breathe together. On three. One, two—”

He is lanky, about sixteen or seventeen. His shirt says REHEARSAL CREW. Pulse: fast. Breathing: too fast and shallow. Lips: pink.

I rolled him onto his side. Head lower than chest. I slide a towel under his cheek and another across his shoulders. He gags and expels water. “Good,” I say. “Don’t fight the cough. Use it.”

White Visor arrives with towels. Hands shake. Red Shirt keeps hitting the red button as if force will speed the system.

Several tourists stand close with phones raised. Their screens reflect the dock lights.

“Phones down,” I say without looking up. “Give him space.”

White Visor points at his own chest. “Me?”

“You,” I say. I take his wrists and plant his hands on the boy’s hips. “Hold him here. Do not let him roll onto his back.”

The boy hacks again. Thin bile streaks the water on the towel. He tries to speak and only whistles air.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“Eli,” he rasps.

“Eli, I’m Dr. Quinn. In through your nose for two, out your mouth for four. Count with me.” We try. He misses. We will try again. He catches a full breath, then another.

A radio voice: “Medical to Bluefire.” A second voice: “On route.”

Staff in resort polos arrive in clumps and hover. No one takes a role. A lifeguard runs in, kneels opposite me, and opens a red bag.

“Airway?” he asks.

“Patent but not secure,” I say. “Keep him lateral.” I check pupils: equal and reactive. I palpate along his scalp: no obvious cut. There is an abrasion across his right knee. He winces.

“I need a thermal blanket,” I say. “I need a dry shirt. Where is his mother?”

“I’m here,” a woman says behind me. Her voice shakes. Her hands grip a backpack.

“He is breathing,” I tell her, clear and calm. “Kneel by his head. Talk to him. Follow our count.”

She kneels. “In for two. Out for four,” she says to her son. He focuses on her voice and gives me one long exhale. His shoulders loosen by a fraction.

The lifeguard slides a foil blanket under the towels. The noise is loud and sharp. The boy shivers hard and his teeth chatter. Warm day or not, cold shock is real. It can trigger a dangerous rhythm.

“Bring portable oxygen and a pulse oximeter,” I call toward the cluster of staff. Someone says, “We don’t stage oxygen on the lagoon.”

“Run to the clinic,” I say. “Now.”

The crowd drifts closer again. More phones rise. The blue lights under the glass make faces look pale.

“Back up,” I say. “Unless you can assist with care, step away.”

Footsteps approach. The cadence is even and controlled.

“What is happening,” a male voice says, “and why are we doing this at the center of the boardwalk?”

Adrian.

I keep my eyes on Eli. “Near-drowning. We are stabilizing.”

“There are cameras everywhere,” Adrian says. I feel his shadow cross my hands. “We do not stage emergencies in the middle of the lagoon.”

“Then build safer docks,” I say. I rub Eli’s arms to increase warmth. Then, to the crowd, louder: “Step back. Six feet.”

“Security is moving them,” Adrian says. He smells like aftershave and clean linen. “You have towels. You have staff. Triage in the clinic—”

“Four minutes without oxygen leads to funerals,” I say. “His breathing is not stable. Moving him now risks a crash out there instead of here. We treat it here. Then we move.”

He starts to answer and stops. I do not look at him.

Ethan arrives and speaks once. “Phones down,” he says. His tone is low and firm. People lower their hands and step back. He positions his body to block lenses.

“Thank you,” I said to him. I see Adrian’s jaw shift when I say it.

A runner brings a pulse oximeter. The lifeguard clips it on Eli’s finger. SpO₂ reads 91 percent. Not critical. Not where I want it.

“Any chest pain?” I ask Eli.

He shakes his head. “Tight.”

“Expected,” I say. “Your lungs took in water. Oxygen will help.”

Portable oxygen finally arrives. The cylinder is small. It will still work. I seat a mask over Eli’s mouth and start flow. The line jumps; the mask fogs. His color improves. His mother starts to cry.

“You are helping,” I tell her. “Keep counting.”

The crowd releases a collective exhale. A few phones rise again.

“Ethan,” Adrian says, “clear cameras.”

“On it,” Ethan says. He does not have to repeat himself.

“Marina,” Adrian says next. She is beside him with a tablet in her hands. “Frame this now.”

“Drafting,” she says. “Doctor Quinn prevents tragedy. Teamwork. Safety is our priority.” She glances at me. “We will need details for the release.”

“Later,” I say.

Eli coughs again, but now the cough has air under it. His heart rate slows. The numbers trend in the right direction.

“Now we move,” I say. “Slow pace. If he vomits, keep him on his side. Mother on this side. Lifeguard, carry the oxygen. We are not sprinting.”

“Proceed,” Adrian says.

I stand. My shoe slides on a patch of water. Adrian’s hand closes on my elbow for one second, keeps me upright, then leaves. I do not look at him.

We take five slow steps toward the clinic. A visitor raises a tablet in front of Adrian’s face. “Is this your island?” she asks. “This is already posted.”

The headline reads: LUXURY DEATH TRAP? The photo shows Eli’s legs in the water and his mother’s hand reaching toward him. The image is blurry and dramatic. The caption speculates.

Marina leans in. “We can counter that,” she says. “Safety protocols in action—”

“No,” I say. “We fix the causes.”

Adrian’s head turns at that. He does not comment.

In the clinic, we move Eli onto a cot and elevate his head. I attach the pulse oximeter to a wall unit and recheck vitals. His oxygen level climbs to 96 percent. I listen to his lungs. There is wet noise at the bases. It is improving.

We remove wet clothes and give him a dry shirt and a polar fleece blanket. It is ugly. It is warm. His shivering slows.

Asha comes in with a clipboard. “Vitals chart,” she says. She squeezes my shoulder once.

“Observation for at least four hours,” I say. “Breath sounds every fifteen minutes. Continuous pulse ox. Temperature every thirty. Warm fluids by mouth. If crackles persist at six hours, order a chest X-ray on the mainland.”

“We do not have portable imaging,” Asha says.

“I know,” I say. “We will call if needed.”

Asha hands Eli’s mother a cup of tea. The woman sits and thanks her. Relief shows on her face and in her hands.

I step back outside. The lagoon looks exactly the same as before. Blue light. Even edges. Wet glass.

Adrian waits by the clinic door with Marina and Ethan. The crowd is smaller now.

“How is he?” Adrian asks.

“Stable,” I say. “We are watching for secondary drowning. If we monitor and intervene when needed, he should be fine.”

Marina’s tablet chimes. “Counter-story seeded,” she says. “Guests praise response. ‘Preparedness’ is the keyword.” She tilts the screen. The thumbnail shows me on my knees over Eli.

“Good,” I say. “Now we print the list.”

“What list?” she asks.

“The safety list,” I say. “Rails. Non-slip. Rescue rings every fifteen meters. Oxygen staged at each dock. Radios that connect across zones. Staff trained to act without waiting for permission.”

She looks at Adrian.

He meets my eyes. “We will implement,” he says. “We will also audit dock design before Lantern Tide. Ethan?”

“Already scheduling,” Ethan says into his radio.

A group of tourists laugh as they pass. The sound is normal. It does not reflect what almost happened. That is how the public works. They move on when there is no body.

“Doctor,” Adrian says. His voice is lower than before. “You were right to treat it on-site.”

“Thank you,” I say. “I do not perform medicine for photos.”

“Everything here is a performance,” he says. “Even refusing to perform.”

“I focus on survival,” I say.

He nods once.

Marina clears her throat. “Optics—”

“Safety,” I say. “File optics after.”

Adrian steps between us in the conversation. “Tomorrow at six a.m.,” he says. “Risk walk. Full route. Docks, rails, signage, staff positions. You bring your list.”

I let the pause sit. “I already have one,” I say.

We hold eye contact. A camera clicks somewhere behind us. I do not react. I make a note in my head: order a non-slip by the end of day. Stage oxygen by end of day. Training schedule on my desk by morning.