Emergency Medical Responder

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Clean Record

I am the medic they send when the call is bad, and my save rate has never broken. To keep it perfect, I start deciding who is worth the rush. The man I write off first is the one who lives to watch me do it.

Movement one.

I am the closer.

Dispatch sends me to the wrecks no one else wants, and my record is clean, perfect, never a loss on my sheet.

I tell the rookies a good medic reads a scene in three seconds and is never wrong.

I believe it.

That certainty is the best thing about me.

Movement two.

B is the man who keeps calling.

Overdose, sober, overdose.

The fourth time, the ninth, the fourteenth.

I stop running for him.

One night I clear his call as a refusal before I check him close.

He lives anyway.

The lie holds.

My record stays clean, and the clean record feels like proof I was right.

So I do it again, with others I decide won't make it.

The cutting corners works, and the success rewards the rot.

They make me a trainer.

I get C, a rookie who believes the three-second rule because I taught it to her.

Then the reversal: at a pileup I read the scene in three seconds and call a quiet girl walking wounded.

I am wrong.

She bleeds out while I work the patient I chose.

I write the report so the three seconds never happened, and I tell C to sign it.

She does.

The cover holds.

The thing that made me great, the clean record, is now the thing I kill to protect.

Movement three.

B relapses on my shift.

From the floor he tells me he was awake that first night.

He watched me decide he wasn't worth it.

He is the one man I wrote off who lived to see it.

He gives me the trade: save him loud, on the record, and he says nothing, or let my sheet finally show a loss.

One minute on the clock.

The whole story is whether the closer can choose a man over a number.

I choose the number.