I looked around. Nobody moved. 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.”
“CALL 911!” I yelled. I dropped to my knees and my training kicked in. They stared. “CALL 911,” I shouted again. A teenager fumbled out his phone. “Okay, okay!”
I dropped to my knees, and my training kicked in. Scene safe enough. Check responsiveness. “Sir,” I said. “Can you hear me?” Nothing. “I need someone to flag the ambulance!” Breathing was barely there. Pulse weak and wrong. Lips turning blue.
“I need someone to flag the ambulance!” I shouted. No one moved. Fine. I laced my hands and started compressions, hard and fast, counting out loud to keep from panicking. My arms burned. Sweat froze on my back.
Paramedics rushed in, and one dropped beside me. The teenager’s voice shook on the phone. “This lady’s doing CPR. We’re behind the bar with the neon dog sign.” The blazer guy stepped farther away. Like compassion was contagious.
Sirens finally cut through the night. Paramedics rushed in, and one dropped beside me. “You started compressions?” “Yes,” I panted. “No effective breathing. Weak pulse. Cyanotic.”
I stumbled back, shaking. He gave me a quick look. “Good work.” They took over—oxygen, bagging, monitor—moving with that clipped confidence that makes you believe in systems again. I stumbled back, shaking.
They lifted the man onto a stretcher. His eyes fluttered open. He looked right at me, like he was trying to hold onto something. He rasped, “Marker.”
I leaned in. “What?” He grabbed my wrist. “Your name. Write it. So I don’t forget.” Someone shoved a marker into my hand. I wrote on the inside of his wrist: BRIAR. He stared at it like it was a life raft. Then the ambulance doors shut.
I walked home like I was underwater. I got in the shower and cried until my throat hurt. Not just about Jace. About being 28 and still fighting for what I wanted. About people watching someone die and worrying about germs.
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