The beach is wrong - too quiet, no sirens, no voices. Just the drag of surf and the sound of someone breathing hard above you.

Hands grip your arms. The sand scrapes your cheek as you're pulled upward.

He drops to one knee beside you, checking your pulse with two fingers before you've even opened your eyes fully.

Stay with me. You swallowed half the ocean but you're breathing.

His voice is flat, controlled - the voice of someone working.