You lean forward, head in your hands, in the corner of the room. On the screen, the peaks flatten. The beeps string together into one continuous sound. Nurses rush in, and cluster around the bed. They do not rush you out of the room, as you did not jump up and get in their way. You are simply sitting in the corner, head in your hands.
Before that, you are at the hospital telephone, dialing the number that is supposed to be the wife's. The line rings several times. You dial again. Still, there is no response. You think of your own wife, at her job. She has a pen tucked behind her ear, and is lost in pages of numbers. They are impersonal, safe. They are not people. A nurse comes to inform you of another number, one that will hopefully pick up.
Before that, the driver hops out, and directs a group of people and you toward the emergency room. A flurry of activity surrounds the stretcher. As the body is rolled away from you, you head to the front of the hospital.
Before that, the ambulance pulls into the parking lot, and a team of nurses and doctors descend upon it.
Before that, you quickly search pockets for a form of identification. The age is your own. Brown hair, brown eyes. Even the weight is your own.
Before that, you tighten the oxygen mask around the face, and run vitals. There isn’t enough time.
Before that, you wrap your arms around the legs, and Jim lifts the head. Together, you heave, and place the body on the stretcher.
Before that, you run to the man, who is face down on the asphalt, a stagnant, viscous pool crawling out from under him.
Before that, you arrive at 870 Market Street, and navigate through a gaggle of onlookers and a few police cars, their sirens silent, but their lights still flashing. You see a frame made of yellow lines of tape, and the rock in the pit of your stomach gains layers, growing larger and heavier.
Before that, you rushed to the ambulance, and Jim gets in the driver’s seat while you prep a stretcher in the back. The two of you peel out of the parking lot, and race downtown.
Before that, a wild buzzing interrupts what you are about to say, followed by a shrill ring. You check your pocket and you see your pager flashing a message. Jim checks his own, sighs, and mutters, “jumpers are the worst, man.”
Before that, you get coffee with Jim, who is also working this shift. You tell him about the growing distance between you and your wife, and her hushed whispers about divorce. He talks to you about his daughter, who recently graduated high school and was on the pre-med path, in hopes of being a doctor, like the ones her father worked with.
Before that, you were having a slow, uneventful day.
