I was feeling stressed that day. That was why I said what I did to the old man. In retrospect it was perhaps the wisest thing I've ever said in my life.

I picked him up at a convalescent home in suburban Spokane; a withered, emaciated ninety year old. His race was indeterminable, he was so withered by time but his name on the bank of paperwork the con home staff had given me identified him as So Li, which, I was reasonably sure, made him Chinese. He was suffering from cancer, not just to one particular body part but throughout his entire body. I took one look at him and knew he wasn't long for this world. His breathing was ragged and irregular, his skin pale and feverish. His body probably weighed about seventy-five pounds if he was lucky. There was absolutely no muscle in evidence upon his bones and his flesh hung loosely from every extremity. Despite all of this he was mentally quite aware of his surroundings, something else I recognized almost immediately.

"How are you doing Mr. Li?" I asked him, bending over his form on the hospital bed.

"Can't…" He puffed softly. "Breathe." He finished.

I nodded, taking the stethoscope out of the leg pocket of my jumpsuit and putting it in my ears. I listened to his lungs, hearing nothing but bad news. He was barely moving any air at all. I'd been a paramedic for eight years but even a newbie could have seen that Mr. Li's survival on the trip to the hospital was in question. He needed a breathing tube placed in his lungs to help him.

The nurse (and I use that term loosely) was the epitome of white trash. Bleach blonde, sixty or so pounds overweight, and chewing a large wad of bubble gum as she peered at us.