PART 2
“Hattie! Hattie, talk to me!”
I was running across the warehouse parking lot. I could hear water. Coughing. Then my daughter’s voice, choking and fierce.
“I got him, Daddy! I got him! I jumped in!”
My eight-year-old had dropped the phone on the pool deck, jumped into the deep end in her clothes, and grabbed her little brother by the back of his shirt.
She’d had swimming lessons the summer before. Twelve of them. I’d almost canceled them to save money.
“Pull him to the steps, baby! The steps!”
“I’m trying! He’s heavy!”
I heard splashing. Gasping. Then Rowan coughing and crying, a loud, angry, wonderful cry.
“He’s crying, Daddy! He’s crying!”
“Good. Crying means he’s breathing. Hold him on his side. Help is coming.”
I called 911 from my truck with Hattie still on the other line. Our neighbor, Mr. Quintero, a retired mail carrier, heard Hattie screaming over the fence. He climbed it at seventy-one years old and wrapped both kids in beach towels.
