"Don't touch him."
I kicked the stall door open and saw a boy folded into himself on cold tile. He was small, maybe ten, skin pale under airport lights. He wasn't breathing right. His jaw was slack. People shoved past, eyes sliding away like I wasn't there.
"Clear the way!" I barked.
A man in a dark jacket moved toward me with the wrong kind of smile. He lifted his foot before I could reach the boy.
"Back off," I said and pushed his foot away.
He swung a heel at my hands. It clipped my knuckles. I tasted copper. I grabbed his ankle and twisted. His heel found tile.
"Who are you?" he sneered.
"Someone who knows how to save a kid," I said.
I set my palms over the boy's chest. His ribs didn't rise. I gave two slow breaths and started compressions. I counted through the motion. Training is a rhythm you don't think through. Training keeps your hands steady when panic tries to take them.
"Cut it out," the man said. He lunged and I hooked his arm behind him. He pulled a blade. A silver flash in the light.
"That's unnecessary," I said. "Step away."
He jabbed. I moved my weight, pinned his wrist, and popped his elbow with a twist. He howled. The blade clattered. A second man in a cheap suit stepped into the doorway, watching like this was a show.
"Erase her," the second man
