“What?”
“Do not do their defense for them.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
The doctor rubbed both hands over his face.
“I’m trying to understand.”
“Understand later.”
His husband pointed toward the bruise.
“They grabbed you while you were performing CPR.”
“They stopped you.”
“You told them she had no pulse.”
“One slapped you.”
“You do not need to make this reasonable before you’re allowed to be angry.”
The doctor stared at him.
Then slowly nodded.
That was fair.
He had spent a career processing trauma professionally.
Cause.
Effect.
Protocol.
Error chain.
System response.
It protected him.
Sometimes too well.
His husband asked:
“Are you angry?”
The doctor thought.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Another pause.
“Scared?”
He did not answer immediately.
Then:
“After.”
“Not during?”
“During, I was counting seconds.”
His husband leaned into him carefully.
The doctor closed his eyes.
For the first time all day, he stopped being useful.
That night, the runner remained unconscious.
The doctor went home at midnight.
He did not sleep.
Every time his eyes closed, he saw her chest motionless beneath his hands.
Then the officer’s fingers in his shirt.
Then the curb.
Then the monitor showing ventricular fibrillation.
At 3:11 a.m., he got out of bed.
His husband woke.
“Where are you going?”
“Kitchen.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
He sat at the table.
Opened his laptop.
Then closed it.
He almost searched for news coverage.
Stopped.
Nothing good lived there at three in the morning.
His husband entered carrying two glasses of water.
He sat.
The doctor said:
“Ninety seconds.”
His husband knew immediately.
“The CPR interruption.”
“Yes.”
“You don’t know exactly.”
“I know approximately.”
“Stop counting it.”
“I can’t.”
“Then count the time before.”
The doctor frowned.
“What?”
“You saw her collapse.”
“You started CPR.”
“How fast?”
“Immediately.”
“Count that too.”
The doctor looked at him.
His husband continued.
“If you’re going to turn this into arithmetic, don’t only count the seconds somebody stole.”
That was annoyingly intelligent.
The doctor hated him briefly.
Then loved him for it.
The next morning, the runner moved her hand.
Small movement.
Probably purposeful.
By afternoon, she opened her eyes.
By evening, she followed a simple command.
The attending physician called the doctor at home.
“You want good news?”
“Yes.”
“She squeezed my fingers on command.”
The doctor sat down.
His husband watched from across the room.
“Again?”