John sat down on the curb, numb to the frantic energy that surrounded him, and rested his head in his hands. The noise of an ambulance, which he had frantically ordered the waiter to call, slowly grew louder and louder, its distant melodic tones unbearable as it approached. Upon the ambulances arrival, EMTs jumped out and ran their stretcher into Le Pont, the only French restaurant John had been able to find within a 40 mile radius of his house. The information page on their website had explained that the restaurant’s name meant “The Bridge” in English, which John had found baffling since there were about as many rivers nearby as French restaurants. After several minutes of paralyzed inaction, he looked up and saw through the front windows that the EMTs were not doing CPR or shocking her with their paddles that sometimes helped people on medical dramas. They were instead talking to the restaurant’s manager, who was pointing towards where John was sitting, but that was to be expected. The night was playing out more or less as he expected, dreaded, agonized over for days before finally deciding he had to book somewhere to have dinner or call the whole date off, which was still certainly an option in his mind. As EMTs started towards him, he tried to calm himself down and though he hated to admit it, tried to look less guilty because at the moment that was exactly how he felt. “I didn’t do anything”, he said under his breath, rocking back and forth slightly. “It’s not my fault.” These statements, he realized, became less and less convincing every time he said them, especially to himself. He could accept the fact that people died and he could even accept the fact that people might someday die around him, in close enough proximity to see them actually slump over, their eyes unfocused and suddenly dim. What he could not accept was the sheer number of times it had now happened around him. In the past three weeks. On dates. He watched the EMT’s approach his crouched position, dreading the interaction that was to come. One of them went down on one knee beside him, pausing for a second to gather his thoughts, which said all John needed to know. Contrary to what he had told himself in the mirror that morning, four times was not the charm. The first girl had been a dream of a woman named Jennifer. She was smart, funny, and generally everything one person looks for in another. Didn’t hurt that she was beautiful as well. Their date had been set up by a mutual friend, a fact which John initially held against Jennifer since he would only have classified their “friend” as such if he had been held at gun point, and he was pretty sure his captor was going to fire. However, they hit it off immediately and dinner turned into a walk in the park, which turned into him going to Jennifer’s place. He was having his third last drink, the first two having not quite given him the confidence he usually needed to suggest that maybe they would both be more comfortable with considerably less clothing on, that he had first sensed something was wrong. Jennifer had stumbled, laughed it off as too much wine, then fallen over and become unresponsive, faster than could be believed. Bad reaction from mixing medication and alcohol, the police officer had later said, as he handed John a cup of coffee at the police station. After an hour they had released him and he had walked home, badly shaken, but without any real fear. “These things happen,” he thought “I’ll make sure to check labels on pill bottles and put this behind me.”