Life after breath

Younger Son made a sound I can't quite describe when he saw one of his goldfish on the floor.
Unmoving.
Not breathing.
He nudged it.  Nothing.

The Husband and I stood with Younger Son staring down over the little creature trying to take in that it had apparently jumped out of the bowl it shared with two other fish (or perhaps it was pushed!).  We, too, waited for it to twitch, to breathe.

None of us had any idea how long it had been lying there.
It looked dead.
We remarked how it was a good thing the cat hadn't found it first.

Younger Son fetched a stretch of toilet paper from the bathroom to pick up the goldfish.  He gently carried it to the bathroom for its burial at sea.  When I joined him there, he slowly and ceremoniously tipped his hand to drop the body.

But then... it gasped.

"Oh my god!"
Without a second thought, Younger Son raced back to the fish bowl and dumped the limp fish into it.
"Oh my god!"

Is it breathing?
Is it moving?
You saw it breathe, right?

The other two fish darted around the bowl.  Bumping their lifeless comrade.  Knocking him sideways.  Kissing him.

Look!  His gills are moving.
Did his mouth just open?
You see that?  He moved his fins!

It took a few minutes, but after a while, he was breathing regularly, propelling himself around the bowl, and finally hitting the surface to eat something.

Imagine.
He was this close to being flushed away.

Now, he's perfectly fine.
Younger Son knows which one it is, but I can't tell by the way any of them are behaving which one nearly died.
Good thing, otherwise I'd have to start calling it "Evil Finnievil, Stunt Fish" after his death-defying leap across cat-infested carpeting.
And that would just be silly.