I held eleven-year-old Marcus Daniels in my arms, clutched tightly against my chest. Thelittle boy was bleeding badly. Rita Washington had found Marcus on the oily, darkened stairwayleading to the basement in his building and had taken me to his crumpled body.

1 ran like the wind, crying inside, holding it back as I've been taught to do on The Job andmost everywhere else.

People who don't normally stare at much in Southeast were staring at me as I rumbled forwardlike a ten-axle semi on the loose in the inner city.

I out paced gypsy cabs, shouting at everybody to get out of my way.

passed ghost store after ghost store boarded up with dark, rotting plywood that was scrawledwith graffiti.

I ran over broken glass and rubble, Irish Rose bottles, and occasional dismal patches of weedsand loose dirt. This was our neighborhood; our share in The Dream; our capital.

I remembered a saying I'd heard about D. C.: “Stoop down and you'll get stepped on, stand talland you'll be shot at.”

As I ran, poor Marcus was throwing off blood like a soaking-wet puppy dog shedding water. Myneck and arms were on fire, and my muscles continued to strain.

“Hold on, baby,” I said to the little boy. “Hold on, baby,” I prayed.

Halfway there, Marcus cried out in a tiny voice, “Doctor Alex, man.” That was all he said tome. I knew why. I knew a lot about little Marcus.

I raced up the steep, freshly paved asphalt drive of St. Anthony's Hospital, “St. Tony'sSpaghetti House” as it's sometimes called in the projects. An EMS ambulance rolled past me,heading toward L Street.

The driver wore a Chicago Bulls cap pulled sideways, its brim pointing strangely in mydirection. Loud rap music blared from the van, and it must have been deafening inside. Thedriver and medic didn't stop, didn't seem to consider stopping. Life in Southeast goes likethat sometimes. You can't stop for every murder or mugging that you come across on your dailyrounds.