I don’t want to do this anymore.
The first time, it was a grandma. She was old and her heart stopped beating and that happens to old grandmas. The family was crying, but they were supposed to cry and they weren’t my family.
The second time, it was a dad. He wasn’t so old and his family cried louder but sometimes dads go too and it still wasn’t my family.
Then came the kids.
Seventeen. Suicide by hanging.
Thirteen. Five-year-old brother playing with a gun.
Three. Bathtub.
And the newborns in the garbage can because mom was a kid, too.
I don’t want to do this anymore.
“Medic 11, you have a run.”