There is a memorial plaque in town. I pass it regularly. I remember.
I remember a sunny Saturday morning drilling at the firehouse.
I remember swearing loudly and running to the engine when the tones dropped.
I remember almost overshooting the address, and I remember the horrid moaning sound the engine's radial tires made as we literally skidded to a stop.
I remember leaping from the still-moving engine.
I remember the Doppler effect as the following ambulance shot past us, siren wailing, unable to stop in time.
I remember a tall staircase, narrow but straight.
I remember a tiny bedroom with too many rescuers in it.
I remember compressions, and ventilations, and “No shock advised.”
I remember an ambulance disappearing over the horizon.
I remember futility.
I remember we were too late.