My heart sinks as the tones drop. I know it's something bad; I can feel it in the air.
"Station 1," the dispatcher begins, "respond to 852 Westbury Lane for an unresponsive male." I look around; it's just Drew and me. Everyone else is still at the hospital on another call. Panicked, I pick up the radio.
"Station 1, central."
"Go ahead Station 1."
"Medic 1 will be en route; requesting ALS."
"10-4, Station 1."
As Drew starts the medic, I hear dispatch tone out for ALS, and I pray that somebody answers.
"Medic 11, Medic 1."
"Go ahead Medic 11."
"Medic 11 is still out of service, and will remain so for a while." Shit. Drew looks at me and shrugs.
"Hell, they need somebody," he says as we pull into the driveway.
A fifty-something year old male weighing well over three hundred pounds lies on the ground, breathing irregularly, with a glassy look in his eye. His daughter stands nearby, obviously too traumatized to act. She says something, but the words are fuzzy. I look at Drew, and he looks back with the same scared stare.
"Central, Medic 1."
"Go ahead Central," I say as my voice shakes.
"Medic 1, no ALS is available."
"10-4," I manage to squeak out as I look down at our patient. Drew simply shakes his head.

I sit bolt upright in bed, too startled to worry about the cold sweat I'm in. I feel around as I try to figure out where I am. I'm in my room, in my bed, and it's four in the morning. It was a dream. It was a dream. I pinch myself hard to shock myself back into reality. There was no dying patient, no distressed daughter.
My phone is flashing blue--a text message. I flip it open and see it's from Drew.
"Sam, we need to run a call together now that I'm an EMT!"
I try not to laugh as I type back "Yeah, but how about we wait until I'm ALS." I can't wait to explain that, I think to myself as I roll over.

Managing to ignore a hypnic jerk as I fall back to sleep, I hear it again.
"Station 1, respond to 375 Mill Avenue for an unresponsive female."