Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children - BOOCarz

“He’s pretty far gone,” said Enoch, appraising
Martin as a surgeon might assess an all-but-hopeless
patient. “I’m telling you now, this might not work.”
“We got to try,” Bronwyn said, stepping bravely to
the trough with the rest of us. “We come all this way,
we at least got to try.”
Enoch opened his slicker and pulled one of the
wrapped hearts from an interior pocket. It looked like
a maroon catcher’s mitt folded in on itself. “If he
wakes up,” Enoch said, “he ain’t gonna be happy. So
just stand back and don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
All of us took a generous step back except Enoch,
who bellied up to the trough and plunged his arm into
the ice that filled Martin’s chest, swirling it around like
he was fishing for a can of soda in a cooler. After a
moment he seemed to latch onto something, and with
his other hand he raised the sheep heart above his
head.
A sudden convulsion passed through Enoch’s body
and the sheep heart started to beat, spraying out a
fine mist of bloody pickling solution. Enoch took fast,
shallow breaths. He seemed to be channeling
something. I studied Martin’s body for any hint of
movement, but he lay still.
Gradually the heart in Enoch’s hand began to slow
and shrink, its color fading to a blackish gray, like
meat left too long in the freezer. Enoch threw it on the
ground and thrust his empty hand at me. I pulled out
the heart I’d been keeping in my pocket and gave it to
him. He repeated the same process, the heart
pumping and sputtering for a while before faltering
like the last one. Then he did it a third time, using the
heart he’d given to Emma.
Bronwyn’s heart was the only one left—Enoch’s last
chance. His face took on a new intensity as he raised
it above Martin’s rude coffin, squeezing it like he
meant to drive his fingers through. As the heart began