There are three loaves of bread sticking out of a paper bag in the passenger seat of the car. I recognized them from the bakery on Park Street where people pick up fresh long loaves of the crusty pan de agua (water) bread hot out of the ovens when the shop opens at six. It is now eleven on this brisk November day and the bread is cold. We pulled the young man who bought them out of the parked car and laid him down on the pavement in the apartment building’s isolated rear lot. Now a woman screams when she recognizes the man. People come out of the back door of the building. The older onlookers try to shield the children’s view. We work the man for thirty minutes and then five more on the short trip to the hospital, but the straight line on the monitor never changes.
