This biker dragged my daughter’s lifeless body onto the boat dock while everyone else was still screaming and pointing.
I was underwater, my lungs burning, my hands grasping at nothing in the murky darkness where she’d gone under. When I broke the surface gasping, this massive bearded man in a leather vest was already doing chest compressions on my baby girl.
His tattooed hands pushed against her tiny chest with perfect rhythm. Water poured from Emma’s mouth as he worked.
The other parents from the church picnic stood frozen, their phones out, recording everything but helping with nothing. This stranger didn’t even look up—just kept counting compressions, kept breathing life into my daughter while I crawled onto the dock coughing up lake water.