12

White light began to filter through the dust cloud, which was starting to break apart. A thinner cloud remained, reminding Tyler of a thick fog. The cloud was passing on.

After the dust broke up and seemed to continue moving toward Phoenix, the bus driver peeled the duct tape off the front door so everyone could get out.

“Kevin, how are your eyes?” Mr. Dwyer coughed.

“They’re better—thanks.” That was the most serious Tyler had ever seen Kevin.

They stepped outside and Mr. Dwyer coughed some more. Tyler stepped toward him. “Mr. Dwyer . . . ?”

The coach held up a hand. “I’m okay,” he said. “I just need a minute.” He bent over, resting his hands on his knees.

The terrain was different after the storm. Sand dunes had formed where the wind lifted dust and rock off the ground. The grouping of cacti that had been bent over before stood up straighter, but they were partially buried in a foot of sand that had blown against them.

The wheels of the bus were covered in sand too. They would need to be dug out whenever the bus was rescued. The sides of the bus had taken the worst beating. They were dimpled with tiny dents, as if they’d developed freckles like Tyler’s. A layer of sand and dirt covered the outside of the bus as if the team had gone joy riding in the muddy backwoods. But being stuck in that dust storm had been no joy ride.

As the bus driver stepped down off of the bus, he was winded and sweating again. The air was still dry—and still full of dust and dirt particles. But the storm had actually lowered the temperature . . . so why was the bus driver still sweating so much? Tyler was glad he didn’t sweat quite that much or he’d have to keep an extra can of deodorant in his locker to get through the school day.

The driver looked like he was having a hard time breathing now. He coughed and wheezed, falling to his knees as his face turned pale.

“What’s wrong with him?” José asked.

Mr. Dwyer rushed over to the driver. “I think it’s a heart attack.”

“Oh my god!” Julia’s hands flew to cover her mouth.

“Does anyone know CPR?” Mr. Dwyer asked. “I’m having trouble catching my breath.”

The driver slumped all the way to the ground. He lay on his side, not moving.

Tyler stared a moment, then shook his head as if waking up from a dream again. He and Ethan had attended a CPR class together last fall, after the firefighter had given his pull aside, stay alive talk.

“Yeah,” he said. “I do. I know CPR, but I can’t do it with my hand like this.”

“And because of your asthma attack,” Ethan said. “I can do it.” But he stood frozen in place, as if he’d completely forgotten what to do.

“I can help,” Tyler suggested, remembering that the class’s instructor had encouraged people to work in teams. Ethan looked up at him gratefully. Tyler dropped to his knees across from Ethan so the driver lay in between them.

“First,” Tyler reminded, “you have to check his breathing.”

Ethan leaned down and turned his head so his ear was near the driver’s nose and mouth. Then Ethan waited a few seconds to see if he felt the guy breathing.

“Do you feel any air?” Tyler asked.

“No—he’s not breathing,” Ethan said. “I’m starting CPR.”

“I’ll help count,” Tyler offered.

They’d learned from their CPR class that they were supposed to do chest compressions until the person began breathing again.

Tyler watched as Ethan felt for the breastbone in the middle of the driver’s chest. Ethan’s hands shook. He interlaced his fingers with the left hand on top of the right hand and the right hand palm down. Then he placed his hands so they covered two inches of the chest bone, the way they’d practice at the class.

Ethan pressed in, doing the first compression. He pushed down hard with the heel of his right hand. Then he followed up with a second and a third compression—more than one per second. Tyler started singing a song quietly under his breath, which the instructor had said would help keep a tempo for the compressions. Ethan picked up on his cue and started humming along. The process looked a lot different on a real person than on the resuscitation doll. And the driver was a big guy.

“You’re doing great!” Tyler said, and then kept count. “Five, six, seven, eight . . . ” Meanwhile, Mr. Dwyer said, “Sha’relle, see if the radio is working yet.”

The driver had tried to radio for help right after the bus had broken down, but the radio hadn’t worked with the approaching storm. Maybe it would work now that the air had cleared.

Sha’relle ran up the bus steps and grabbed the radio hand-piece. She pressed the button on the side. “Hello?”

Static crackled in response.

“Try another frequency,” Mr. Dwyer yelled.

Sha’relle flipped the knob. Another channel opened up. “Is anyone there? We need help!”

Tyler focused on counting for Ethan, who was still humming under his breath, while Sha’relle finally made contact with someone over the radio.

“They’re coming! They’re sending an ambulance and another bus,” Sha’relle shouted, hanging up the radio and hopping down the steps. The other students cheered.

Suddenly the driver moved. Ethan jumped back as the man coughed and gagged.

“Turn him on his side,” Mr. Dwyer said, crouching near them.

Tyler cradled the driver’s head while Ethan rolled him over. The driver threw up. His face was grayish and sweaty, but he was breathing. The man was alive.

Julia looked at Ethan and Tyler. “You did it. That was amazing!”

Ethan exhaled and glanced at Tyler. “Couldn’t have done it alone.”

Julia squeezed Tyler’s shoulder.

Tyler’s heart was racing again, either from the adrenaline of the moment or from Julia touching his shoulder. He breathed in deeply. The driver was alive. The CPR had worked. Someone was coming to help them. Now Tyler hoped the ambulance would arrive soon. From the looks of the driver’s face, which was still as gray as the retreating dust storm, he probably wasn’t out of the woods yet.