Third Degree by Julie Cross

shirtless inside our dorm. But soon there’s a sea of shirtless guys to stare at as more students finish the run and remove excess clothing. The last runner finishes in eleven minutes fifteen seconds, and that was one of the girls who made it over the wall. Holloway is clearly disappointed with the small number of nine-minute miles, which is why I’ve got stomach butterflies as I take my place with the second half of the class. The last thing I want is to stand out for being the slowest runner in the class.
    All during the first lap, I keep reminding myself that only a month ago I ran a 5K race with my dad. It was a hospital fund-raiser and employees were “strongly encouraged” to participate, so it wasn’t exactly by choice, but I trained for it and finished in twenty-seven minutes and forty seconds. If I could run three miles in that time, then surely I could do one in less than eleven minutes. It’s irrational and illogical to assume I’d be the last one just because the slowest runner so far was able to make it up that damn wall and I wasn’t.
    I focus all my attention on the facts, the pure calculations to prove what I should be capable of achieving. I match my pace to a blond-haired guy several strides in front of me. I watch his back and measure his breathing, trying to keep my breaths in line with the pace. Right after the third lap, his breathing starts to shift. At first I think he’s running out of gas, slowing up his pace on purpose, but then his head tilts upward like he’s trying to expand his airway.
    Something’s wrong .
    I speed up until I’m within arm’s reach of him and then grab the back of his T-shirt, halting both our movements. “You need to stop.”
    He’s wheezing with such effort, he’s now resorted to clutching his chest and making large movements with his upper back and shoulders, as if that will improve his ability to take in air. It won’t.
    Sergeant Holloway crosses the track, walking as quickly as his artificial knee will allow. “He’s hyperventilating.” He rests a hand on the guy’s shoulder. “Longfield, put your head between your knees. I swear, you infants would drop like flies if, God forbid, I made you run two miles. Jesus Christ.”
    Holloway has this way of sounding pissed off and abusive while at the same time showing obvious concern for our safety (maybe just because he doesn’t want to get in trouble forstudent injuries happening during his class).
    “He’s not hyperventilating,” I say, studying the guy’s chest.
    Shirtless Marshall has now joined us with a very concerned look on his face, his cell phone already in his hand. “Is it asthma? Does he have an inhaler?”
    “Aha!” I’ve figured out the problem. I grab Longfield’s arm and flip it over. It’s covered in hives. Allergic reaction .
    Longfield is panicking now. He can’t speak or respond. That seems to be enough of a clue for Marshall and a couple of other students who have gathered around to all pull out their cell phones to call 911. I tune out the voices and focus on the patient, pulling him down to the ground. I search his ankle first for a bracelet and then ask, even though he’s not likely to answer, “Where is it? Surely you’re not stupid enough to go somewhere without—”
    But I don’t have to finish. My hand lands on a small pouch strapped to his waist. If he had run shirtless I would have noticed the pouch even before any symptoms hit and this diagnostic hunt wouldn’t have had to happen at all. I could have saved him the anaphylactic shock.
    I snap the end cap off the EpiPen and pull up the leg of his gym shorts.
    “What the hell—?” Holloway says just before I press the button sending the needle into Longfield’s thigh.
    One one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand …
    After ten seconds, I remove the auto-injector, toss it aside, and massage the muscle in his thigh, making sure the medicine circulates. He finally pulls in a huge breath of air,