Page 72 of Catching Camila

His back slammed into the waves, pain jolting into every part of him. The cold was shocking. Then water was everywhere, a world of swirling blue and froth and arms and legs. His brain chugged slowly. He fumbled, his hands slicing through the water uselessly. What direction was up? Where was Camila?

His fingers brushed something solid. An arm. He drew her to him, limp, heavy and lifeless. Was she dead? He wrapped his arms around her chest and pulled them upward.

He broke the surface, gasping. In the churning waves, her head bobbed lifelessly. He lifted her higher, his legs stirring beneath the water in a frantic tread.

“Camila!” he gasped, blowing water out of his mouth as a wave threatened to drown him. He had to get her out, but already a few people had stopped their cars and were peering down from the railing, gawkers with hands shielding eyes for a better look. Was that a camera flash? He gripped Camila's limp body with one arm and side-stroked like the devil was chasing him.

He pulled her onto the bank a quarter mile from the bridge. How long since they'd plunged under? A minute? Two? Her legs dragged deep furrows in the mud as he nestled her body between rocks and cattails. He pressed his ear to her mouth.

Nothing.

He locked his fingers together and positioned them over her breastbone. At least those alien bastards had programed him with CPR. He started compressions, hoping to God he didn't crush her ribs. “Please,” he muttered. He couldn't breathe. Not until she did.

She gasped, coughing, and opened her eyes, blinking droplets of water away that clung to her eyelashes. Her lips were purple and puckered, her skin pasty white but for two roses on her cheeks. When her eyes fell on him, she slowly lifted her trembling lips into a smile.

“You did it.” She weakly brushed a strand of hair from her face.

John let out a huge sigh. Then he leaned down and kissed her long and hard.

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