Sometimes this job is like a race. Like you're carrying this person on your back, and it's a messy race. You're tripping and sweating and you almost drop them. It's bouncy and there's trash everywhere. And if you can just get them over that line. To the line and throw them over. Throw them over and into the ER, you're obligation is fulfilled. Your job is done. You've won the race. And for a long time, that was it. Mission accomplished and I wasn't responsible for anything else. I didn't care about anything else. Get them to the hospital. Dust my hands off and pat myself on the back. But somehow, they crept in. What did happen? Did they live? For the first time I asked myself. I began to bring them home. I put them on a shelf and they stared down at me. They said, did you run fast enough? Did you fall? Did you drop me? You threw me onto this island- over your line, but was it salvation? I left in a helicopter. I left in a coma. I left in a body bag. The race is not won.