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dash. He adjusted their heading to the northwest and set them on course for the nearest marina. He made Billy give him constant updates on Mark’s condition, but when Billy started screaming that Mark wasn’t breathing anymore, he rushed down to the cabin, leaving the ship on its speedy course to the harbor.
    “He just passed out!” Billy screamed, holding Mark’s head with his own two hands.
    “Help me get him on his back,” Dylan said, grabbing hold of Mark’s legs. The two men laid him flat on the floor, and Dylan checked Mark’s airway passage. Once it was clear, Dylan opened Mark’s mouth and applied two breaths then placed his hands on the man’s sternum and pumped fifteen compressions. The boat rocked and bumped along the waves, making it difficult for him to keep a steady hand. “C’mon, Mark.” He checked for his breathing again; still nothing. Two more puffs of air followed by fifteen compressions, then two more and another fifteen, then again, and again, and again.
    “Dylan,” Billy said, placing his hand on Dylan’s shoulder.
    “No.” Dylan shrugged Billy’s hand off. “He’s not dead. Not yet.” With each compression thrust into Mark’s chest, Dylan felt the crunch of his friend’s ribs. Eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. He leaned down to Mark’s mouth and felt the light puff of air hit his cheek. “He’s breathing!”
    Billy quickly jumped around to the opposite side and held Mark’s hand. Dylan grabbed Billy by the collar. “You check his breathing every twenty seconds, understand? If he stops again, do exactly what I did. Tilt his head back, open the airway, and breathe two long breaths. Got it?” Billy nodded.
    The harbor lights were in view when Dylan made it back up to the wheelhouse and picked up the radio. “Harbormaster, this is Captain Dylan Turk. I need medical assistance at the docks immediately. I repeat, this is Captain Dylan Turk, and I have an injured man on board with a gunshot wound to the abdomen. He has severe blood loss and is in need of an ambulance.”
    The radio crackled, and a few seconds later the harbormaster came on line. “Copy that, Captain, we have notified the authorities, and we have an ambulance inbound.”
    Dylan blew past the No Wake signs, keeping the ship at full throttle. The sun was still an hour from coming up, but the docks were already busy with fishermen stocking their boats with supplies, getting ready for their day at sea. Horns blared, and the dockworkers shouted at him to slow down as his wake rocked the boats still docked. Dylan eyed an open slip, and just before he crashed, he reversed the engines, coasting him into the slip and giving the dock only the slightest nudge. He tied a line off and rushed down to help Billy bring Mark up. He threw Mark’s left arm over his shoulder, and Billy grabbed the other side. 
    The cursing sailors stopped their shouting about Dylan’s speed at the sight of their bloodied arms and legs as they pulled Mark out of the cabin. “Give us a hand, will you?” The sailors immediately came to their aid, and Dylan heard the sirens from the ambulance up ahead. The paramedics met them on the dock with a stretcher, which they loaded Mark onto. Dylan turned back to Billy, who stood there slack-jawed, looking at the blood on his shirt and arms. “Billy, stay with the boat, okay? Call the police, and tell them what happened. I’m going with Mark to the hospital. I’ll call you when I can.”
    Before Billy could say anything, Dylan was already down the dock, fighting with the paramedics to let him inside. “I’m his brother.” The small lie seemed to work, and the paramedic finally let him in. The ambulance sped off as Dylan watched the paramedics work on Mark, shoving tubes in his arms, placing an oxygen mask over his face. He’s going to make it. Dylan repeated that to himself like a mantra.
    “Hey, how did this happen?” the paramedic asked.
    It took a second for Dylan to retrace the