I stood, grabbed my coat. “Enjoy your wine.”
I couldn’t go home. Home was our apartment.
“Can we talk like adults?” he snapped.
“Adults don’t pull the rug out from under someone and then demand a calm tone.”
“I said I’m sorry.”
“With the same voice you use when the Wi-Fi’s out,” I said, and I walked out.
The cold air hit me like it was trying to wake me up. Outside was a sick joke: hearts in windows, couples everywhere, guys holding flowers like trophies.
Two months left. No job.
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.
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.
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.
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