Werner winced as he stretched his arms forward and crossed them on his chest, like a pharaoh in his tomb. He balled his fists. “Jesus, Helen,” he groaned, his back hunched, his eyes squeezed shut.

Behind them, the robber’s movements were growing steadily weaker. His hands clawed again at the air, his mouth wide open in a silent scream. Helen was oblivious.

She anxiously helped Werner to his feet, asking him where it hurt and instructing him to move his limbs. She checked his pulse, shined her cell phone flashlight into his eyes, opened his mouth, and felt his jaw. Strangely, this calmed her. In the midst of a surreal situation, the habitual actions were a source of comfort, though she missed the droning of the monitors, the reassuring bleeps of the equipment, and the intravenous drips that could work miracles on an injured body.

Werner did everything she asked. He was slightly in shock, she established, simultaneously realizing that the same must apply to her. When she stood up to fetch some damp towels, she once again became aware that there was somebody else in the room. It wasn’t his physical presence that alerted her, but his scent—the smell that sometimes emanated from a body when surgeries went wrong.

Hesitantly, she approached the robber.

The rattling had stopped. A bright-red layer of blood clung to his mouth. There were no signs of breathing.

She squeezed her eyes shut and opened them again, in the childish hope that the man might disappear and all this would turn out to be a figment of her imagination.

But there he was still, lying motionless on his back, his eyes rolled up in their sockets. He suddenly looked so small, so vulnerable and young.

She knelt down and felt his wrist. No pulse. She took the balaclava off his head. A narrow, angular face. Dark hair, sticky with sweat, close-shaven on the sides. His skin was smooth, with a light outbreak of acne on his chin and along his jaw. She guessed he was about twenty years old.

Against her better judgment, she placed her palms on his chest, straightened her arms, and pushed down hard. And again. The pressure forced more blood out of the body, but no breaths came, and his heart remained still. She pushed down once more with all her might.

And what then, Helen? whispered a voice in her head. What will you do if the patient starts breathing, his heart starts pumping again? He’ll just get even more blood in his lungs. He doesn’t have a ghost of a chance.

She lifted his wrist once more. Looked at his fingers. There were black hairs on the backs of them, and his nails had been untidily trimmed. She pursed her lips. It was too late to do anything for him.