The first thing I remember about the little girl's hands was how much effort she put into making herself understood.
She wasn't simply tugging at my vest because she wanted attention.
She was communicating.
I just didn't know the language.
Her right hand moved near her chest.
Then she pointed behind her.
Sometimes she pressed her fingers together.
Sometimes she repeated the same motion so quickly it became difficult to follow.
She looked from my face to the far end of the aisle, then back again.
Every time I asked whether she was lost, she shook her head.
Every time I suggested finding her parent, her expression grew more desperate.
The pharmacy clerk later told me Nora was combining a recognizable sign for sickness with urgent pointing and gestures she'd developed to communicate with her father.
She hadn't been making some mysterious code.
She was telling the adults exactly what was wrong.
We simply weren't listening in the right way.
When the man collapsed, I understood enough.
I knew there were no more questions to ask.
The manager, whose name was Eric, called emergency services while the pharmacy clerk, June, helped keep Nora safely away from the immediate emergency area.
I began CPR.
Somebody brought the AED.
It was a terrifying blur of instructions, compressions, pauses directed by the device, and the sound of the dispatcher speaking through Eric's phone.
I remember hearing the dispatcher ask whether the man was breathing normally.
I remember answering no.
I remember the AED's voice.
And I remember looking toward Nora.
She sat beside June with both hands clenched against her pink shirt.
Her eyes stayed fixed on her father.
A woman near the end of the aisle began praying aloud.
A man holding a shopping basket moved the scattered merchandise away so emergency responders would have room.
Eric sent an employee toward the entrance to guide the ambulance crew.
For all the panic, people were trying to help.
I wish I could say I felt brave.
I didn't.
I was frightened.
My knees hurt.
My shoulder burned.
My heart was pounding so hard I could hear it.
I knew CPR could help keep blood moving until more advanced care arrived, but I also knew it wasn't a guarantee.
That man's life was hanging in a place I couldn't reach with strength alone.
And his daughter was watching.
At one point, June looked toward me and said, βYou're doing great. Keep going.β
I wanted to tell her she was wrong.
I wanted to tell her I had no idea whether any of it was working.