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I don't know how long I was unconscious. Not more than a few minutes, I guess, since it wasn't dark yet. Something was burning a hundred feet away, but apparently Arturo and I had been thrown clear. He was lying on his back, just an arm's length away.

I hoped he was okay. There wasn't a single mark on him, and no alarming angles in the way his limbs and neck were arranged. Even his clothes were undamaged, whereas my shirt had somehow gotten ripped apart and even the T-shirt underneath was torn open. He looked exactly as if he'd just fallen asleep there. But he was out cold. He didn't respond to my calling his name and gently touching his shoulder. Even a groan would have been reassuring.

Then I realized: he didn't seem to be breathing! I felt for a pulse at his throat and didn't find one. I put my ear against his chest, but failed to hear anything through the two layers of cloth. Panicking, I ripped his shirt open, sending buttons flying into the dirt, and then ripped his T-shirt apart. But when I pressed my ear to the bare skin of his smooth brown chest, which was still warm, I still couldn't hear a heartbeat.

I would have given anything for one of those portable defibrillators. I cursed myself for never having taken the time to learn CPR. I think it was about this point, with the realization that my friend was dead or dying and that I couldn't do a thing about it, that I broke down and ...

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