Valentine’s Day was supposed to end quietly—an uncomfortable dinner, a long walk home, and another night spent replaying everything that had gone wrong. I was fresh out of a breakup that had taken my job, my stability, and the support I’d been counting on to finish my EMT certification. My future felt uncertain, and I was exhausted in ways sleep couldn’t fix. I thought the worst part of the night was already behind me.
Then I heard a sound that stopped me cold.
It came from a dark alley—ragged, panicked, unmistakably human. Before fear could catch up, instinct kicked in. Training took over. I dropped to my knees beside a man who had collapsed, his breathing shallow, his skin cold. People slowed, stared, and kept walking. I didn’t. I started CPR and blocked everything else out.
Time stretched thin. My arms burned. My heart raced. When paramedics finally arrived, relief crashed over me all at once. As they loaded him into the ambulance, the man grabbed my wrist with surprising strength and asked me to write my name on his arm so he wouldn’t forget who helped him. I did it without thinking. Then I went home, shaken, drained, and sure the night was finally done with me.
Continue reading on the next page…