E L A R A

Late afternoon brings Bluefire Lagoon to life.

The glass docks glow a deep blue from below, drawing visitors closer. Phones are out and people lean along the rails.

I walk the line between dock and water, counting breaths as I check the basics, footing, spacing, signage, guardrails.

Then a boy slips, wet sandals against smooth glass.

He pitches forward, fingers brushing the rail and sliding off. He falls into the water with a sharp slap.

His mother shouts his name.

The crowd goes motionless.

“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 breaks the surface coughing, each breath a messy mix of air and water.

The lagoon is only waist-deep, but depth isn’t the threat, time is. Seconds decide everything.

I step into the water until it reaches my ribs. It’s cold and irrelevant.

I grip him under the arms and haul him up. His feet scrape against the glass as I get him onto the dock.

“Stay with me,” I tell him. “We’re going to breathe together. On three. One, two..”

He’s lanky, sixteen or seventeen, REHEARSAL CREW stamped across his shirt. Pulse rapid, breathing too fast and shallow and lips still pink.

I roll him onto his side, head lower than his chest.

A towel under his cheek, another over his shoulders. He retches, water spilling out.

“Good,” I say. “Let the cough work.”

White Visor shows up with towels, hands trembling.

Red Shirt slams the emergency button like force will make help teleport.

Tourists crowd in with their phones out, screens glowing blue.

“Phones down,” I say, not bothering to look up. “Give him room.”

White Visor taps his own chest. “Me?”

“Yes,” I say. I take his wrists and position his hands on the boy’s hips.

“Hold him steady, and don’t let him flip onto his back.”

The boy coughs again, bile streaking the towel. He tries to speak but only whistles air.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“Eli,” he croaks.

“Eli, I’m Dr. Quinn. In through your nose for two, out your mouth for four. Count with me.”

We try, he falters.

We try again.

He manages one real breath, then another.

A radio crackles: “Medical to Bluefire.”

Another voice: “En route.”

Staff in resort polos gather in loose clusters, watching instead of acting.

A lifeguard kneels across from me and opens his red kit.

“Airway?” he asks.

“Patent but not secure,” I answer. “Keep him on his side.”

Pupils equal, reactive, no obvious head trauma and a raw scrape across his right knee.

“I need a thermal blanket,” I say. “Dry shirt and where’s his mother?”

“I’m here,” a woman says behind me, voice trembling, hands clutching a backpack.

“He’s breathing,” I tell her, calm and direct.

“Kneel by his head. Talk to him. Match our count.”

She kneels.

“In for two… out for four.”

Her voice steadies him. He gives a long exhale, shoulders easing just slightly.

The lifeguard tucks a foil blanket beneath the towels. It crackles sharply, and the boy shivers, teeth clacking.

Warm day or not, cold shock can push the heart into dangerous rhythms.

“Bring portable oxygen and a pulse ox,” I call to the cluster of staff.

Someone replies, “We don’t stage oxygen at the lagoon.”

“Then run to the clinic,” I say. “Now.”

The crowd compresses again and more phones lifted.

The blue light under the dock makes everyone look ghost-pale.

“Back up,” I warn. “If you’re not helping, step away.”

Footsteps approach, steady and intentional.

“What is this,” a controlled male voice says, “and why is it happening in the middle of the boardwalk?”

Adrian.

I stay focused on Eli.

“Near-drowning. We’re stabilizing.”

“There are cameras everywhere,” Adrian says, his shadow passing over my hands.

“We don’t conduct emergency care in the middle of the lagoon.”

“Then build safer docks,” I reply.

I rub Eli’s arms to warm him, then raise my voice to the crowd.

“Back up. Six feet.”

“Security’s moving them,” Adrian says. He smells like aftershave and pressed linen.

“You have towels, and staff. Take him to the clinic..”

“Four minutes without oxygen ends in funerals,” I cut in.

“His breathing isn’t stable. Moving him now risks losing him on the way. We stabilize here, then we move.”

He starts to respond, then stops.

I don’t look at him.

Ethan appears and speaks once: “Phones down.”

The tone is enough; people lower their devices and step back.

He shifts to block lenses from every angle.

“Thank you,” I tell him.

Adrian’s jaw tightens at my gratitude.

A runner brings the pulse oximeter.

The lifeguard clips it on Eli’s finger.

SpO₂: 91 percent, not catastrophic, but not where it needs to be.

“Any chest pain?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Just tight.”

“Expected. You inhaled water. Oxygen will help.”

Portable oxygen arrives, small tank, good enough.

I fit the mask and start the flow.

The tube jumps, the mask fogs, and color returns to his face and his mother starts crying.

“You’re helping,” I tell her softly. “Keep counting with him.”

The crowd exhales like a wave breaking.

A few phones rise again.

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

“On it,” Ethan answers, already moving.

“Marina,” Adrian adds. She’s at his side with a tablet.

“Start framing this.”

“Drafting,” she replies.

“Doctor Quinn averts incident. Teamwork. Safety remains our priority.”

She glances at me. “I’ll 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 and steady. If he vomits, keep him on his side. Mom, stay on this side. Lifeguard, you carry the oxygen. No rushing.”

“Proceed,” Adrian says.

I stand, and 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.

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.

Inside the clinic, we transfer Eli onto a cot and raise his head.

I hook the pulse oximeter into the wall monitor and reassess his vitals.

His oxygen climbs to 96 percent.

When I listen to his lungs, there’s still moisture at the bases, but it’s improving.

We get him out of his wet clothes, into a dry shirt, and wrap him in a polar fleece blanket.

It’s not pretty, but it’s warm.

His shivering eases.

Asha enters with a clipboard.

“Vitals chart,” she says, giving my shoulder a quick squeeze.

“Four hours of observation,” I instruct.

“Auscultate every fifteen minutes. Continuous oxygen saturation monitoring. Temp checks every thirty. Warm oral hydration. If the crackles haven’t cleared in six hours, send him to the mainland for an X-ray.”

“We lack portable imaging,” Asha says.

“I know,” I tell her. “We’ll escalate if necessary.”

Asha gives Eli’s mother a cup of tea; the woman nods gratefully, relief softening her features.

When I step outside, the lagoon is unchanged—blue-lit docks, clean lines, wet, gleaming glass.

Adrian waits near the clinic doorway with Marina and Ethan.

The onlookers have thinned.

“How is he?” Adrian asks.

“Stable,” I say.

“We’re monitoring for delayed complications. With proper observation, he should pull through.”

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 and 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.

Tourists pass, laughing like nothing happened.

That’s the rhythm of the world—they only remember disaster when there’s a body.

“Doctor,” Adrian says, quieter this time.

“You made the correct call handling it on-site.”

“Thank you. I don’t treat patients for publicity.”

“Here? Everything is optics,” he replies. “Even refusing to participate.”

“I deal in survival,” I say.

He dips his head once.

Marina clears her throat. “Optics..”

“Safety,” I say. “File optics after.”

Adrian cuts into the space between us.

“Six a.m. tomorrow,” he says.

“Risk walk. Full route. Docks, railings, signs, staff placements. Bring your list.”

I let the silence stretch.

“I already have one,” I reply.

Our eyes lock, and a camera clicks somewhere behind us, but I don’t acknowledge it.

I just take mental notes: non-slip mats ordered by end of day. Oxygen stations staged by end of day. Training schedule on my desk by morning.