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I couldn’t go home. Home was our apartment, my EMT book on the table, the calendar counting down to my final assessment. So I walked, because standing still felt like drowning.
My brain kept doing math. Two months left. No job. Jace paid most of the rent. I had savings, but not “surprise breakup” savings.
Halfway down the block, I heard a wet, awful wheeze from an alley between a bar and a boutique.
At first, I thought it was a drunk guy. Then I saw him: a man crumpled near a dumpster, convulsing.
I looked around. Nobody moved.
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People stood at the alley mouth, watching.
A woman covered her nose. “Oh my God, he smells.”
A guy in a blazer muttered, “Don’t touch him. He probably has something.”
I looked around. Nobody moved.
“CALL 911!” I yelled.
I dropped to my knees and my training kicked in.
They stared.
“CALL 911,” I shouted again.
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A teenager fumbled out his phone. “Okay, okay!”
I dropped to my knees, and my training kicked in. Scene safe enough. Check responsiveness.
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