Chapter 2 - The Rush to Breathe
A high-pitched scream tore through the chapel as Marianne stumbled backward, her hand flying to her throat, her face turning a ghostly shade of grey. Mourners scrambled over wooden pews, dropping their programs, their eyes fixed in horror and disbelief on the open casket.
Emma was breathing.
Her chest rose and fell in rapid, shallow gasps. She looked entirely disoriented, her eyes rolling back as she struggled to comprehend the white satin lining and the crying crowd surrounding her. The tiny feet against her belly moved again, a desperate kick from a child fighting for survival in an oxygen-deprived environment.
“Out of the way!” I roared, leaping over the velvet rope that separated the family from the guests. I threw my jacket aside and reached into the casket, gently lifting Emma’s head and shoulders. “Emma! Emma, look at me. It’s Nathan. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
She groaned, a weak, raspy sound. Her skin was ice-cold to the touch, but her heart—I could feel it thumping erratically against her ribs.
Darren lunged forward, grabbing my shoulder with a desperate grip. “Nate, stop! This is morbid! She’s dead, it’s just cellular decomposition, gas escaping the body—stop touching her!”
I turned my head, my eyes locking onto his with a predatory intensity that made him freeze. “Touch me again, Darren,” I whispered, “and this funeral home becomes your crime scene. Get your hands off me.”
He recoiled, his face pale and sweating.
“Someone call 911!” I yelled to the crowd. My hand was on Emma’s pulse. It was thready, weak, but undeniably there. She had been put into a state of deep, chemical-induced suspended animation. The "cardiac arrest" was a lie. The doctor who signed the death certificate was in on it.
Within minutes, the distant wail of sirens cut through the afternoon air. Paramedics burst through the chapel doors, pushing a gurney past the stunned, whispering crowd.
Marianne tried to block them, her voice shrill. “There must be some mistake! My daughter was declared dead by a certified physician! You can't just take her!”
“Get out of the way, lady!” the lead paramedic barked, shoving past her.
As they loaded Emma onto the gurney, her hand weakly reached out, her fingers brushing against my sleeve. I grabbed her hand, squeezing it tight.
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“I’m right here, sweetie,” I whispered, walking alongside the gurney as they wheeled her out into the bright afternoon sun. “I’m not letting them touch you ever again.”
Behind us, Darren and Marianne stood on the steps of the funeral home, watching their five-million-dollar payout speed away in the back of an ambulance.
