“Unlocking Secrets: What Lies Within Carrie Mac’s Mysterious Three Envelopes?”
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The firefighters know the choreography. We collar her and roll her carefully onto the backboard. Our pace is solemn, slid towards the bottom end of a scale every paramedic has. A child, choking or in status seizures or covered in burns, an imminent complicated birth, a teenaged boy whose heart stops on the hockey rink, a grandpa having a stroke in his recliner, a gardener who forgot his epi pen, the drunk who takes a swing at me? I move fast for those. But this woman is actively dying. Moving her is as much a cruelty as doing nothing, but I can’t just sit there on the concrete and hold her hand until she dies, and I cannot help her along.
