James stepped back too, his face suddenly pale.

The boy’s mother began to scream, a high, piercing sound that cut through the low chatter of the restaurant.

The father was shaking the boy’s shoulders, his face twisted in panic.

“Joey? Joey, breathe!” the father yelled.

The little boy’s face was turning a dull, dusky blue.

His lips were white.

I did not think about Mark, or James, or the humiliating scene we had just been making.

I ran to the table.

My black heels clicked loudly against the polished hardwood floor.

“Let me through,” I said, my voice dropping into the flat, authoritative tone I used in the emergency department.

“I am a pediatric nurse.”

The father looked up, his eyes wild and bloodshot.

He immediately stepped back, hands raised in helplessness.

I dropped to my knees on the floor behind the boy’s chair.

I pulled the child onto my lap, facing him away from me.

He was small for three, his body stiff and trembling.

I kept my movements deliberate and steady.

I placed one hand flat against his chest to support him.