Lights and sirens fly down the side of the highway. Weave in and out of traffic, znd race to save a life. It was the end of my shift volunteering at the ambulance. I was done, tired, ready to go home after being there for twelve hours. But as we headed back to the station, a call came in. All we heard was, “Cardiac arrest. Exit 9W,” and we were off. Cars pulling over, slowing the traffic, so much power, but also so much responsibility. As we arrived, the man was surrounded by flashing lights, police, and stress. He was unconscious on the black, newly paved shoulder. Not breathing. No signs of life. I told the state trooper that I can take over the CPR. The EMT’s and medics loaded him onto the stretcher, with me still doing CPR. I looked at the medic, and he was calm and composed, but I could tell there was little hope. We took him into the back of the rig. The 12-lead monitor was hooked up. And we saw what no one likes to see. Asystole. Otherwise known as a flat line. His chances weren’t good. No family with him. No form of ID. But we continued CPR, giving him oxygen and epinephrine in hopes of getting his heart back to a regular rhythm. I’ve never seen a person that gray before. We kept trying, our hopes dying as the time passed. Suddenly, we heard a beeping sound, and I looked over at the medic. The medic looked me dead in the eyes and said, “We got him.” I don’t know what happened to that man afterwards, but that feeling of saving a life is something I will never forget.