It’s mid-afternoon on a Saturday, and the morning in the ED has been unusually quiet. Apparently it’s a beautiful day outside, at least according to the staff that come on shift as the morning progresses. The last of the dirty city snow has been washed away by a warm southern breeze that brings the first hint of winter’s end and spring’s beginning. Minseok casts a glance at the double doors that lead to the ambulance bay when Songmi tells him this. He’s not really sure what he’s expecting to see, as the swooping concrete wings of the hospital building and car park block any potential view of the sky or nature. It’s probably the reason why the ED has been so quiet - even people who don’t feel well put off going to hospital on the first nice day in months, and the injuries from Saturday sports games won’t start trickling in until later. When someone comes into the ED on a day like today, it’s usually something serious.

And it is serious. The paramedic makes that clear. Minseok has just finished agreeing with Songmi that it’s a beautiful day, not bothering to mention the fact that he slept in his office again last night and hasn’t actually seen the alleged sunshine for himself, when the radio crackles into life. “Med control, this is ambulance 29, come in.” The radio is just a few steps away and Minseok answers it. “Go ahead, ambulance 29.”

“We’re about ten minutes out with a four-year-old boy. He was found face down in an indoor swimming pool a few minutes ago. He’s intubated and CPR is in progress. At the moment he is unresponsive.” The words are painstakingly controlled and precise.

“Do you have a pulse or a rhythm?” Minseok asks. “Do you know where the parents are?”

“Negative on pulse. Hard to interpret rhythm with CPR ongoing. The father is with us in the ambulance.”

“Copy that. See you in ten.” Minseok hangs up the radio, and for a moment he and Songmi look at each other, saying nothing. Then Songmi takes a deep breath and says, “I’ll put him in bay 1,” and goes to get it ready. Minseok goes to the main desk to ask Aecha to page a respiratory therapist and X-ray tech.

Bay 1 is the station closest to the entrance, and a crash cart where they keep the equipment and medication required for most resuscitations stands against the wall. When Minseok gets back from the main desk, Songmi has torn off the small plastic ring around the latch that seals the cart, removed the intubation and ventilation equipment, and set it near the head of the bed. She’s also set up and hung two IVs. Minseok picks up a small, hard board standing near the wall and lays it on the bed. It’s shaped vaguely like a child, and is meant to make it easier for someone to effectively compress a child’s chest during resuscitation. They cover it with a clean white sheet. Then they go together out to the ambulance entrance where, in the brightness of the sunshine, they listen for the sound of the siren. Minseok turns his face up and closes his eyes to let the sunlight play on his face. Songmi was right. It is a beautiful day, and it is about to be darkened by the patient who is now only six or seven minutes away. Minseok hates drownings for two reasons; one, by the time the patient gets to them it’s almost always too late to do anything, and two, they’re usually young children.

They hear the siren wail down the main highway and then slow as the approaching ambulance turns through the designated entrance lane. The ambulance has barely stopped when the driver jumps out of the cab, runs to the back and opens the rear door. Inside the paramedic is doing single-person CPR. He continues chest compressions while Songmi and Minseok slide the stretcher out the back, lower the wheels to the ground, lock them in place and roll the child into the ED. He’s wearing a pair of small swimming trunks and nothing else, and Songmi wraps a warm blanket around him and takes his core temperature with an electronic probe. Minseok is checking that the endotracheal tube the paramedic has placed into the boy’s windpipe so that they can breathe for him is still in the right place and has not shifted or come out during transport.

“Stop compressions for a moment,” he tells the paramedic. He has to check for a pulse. The paramedic stops and takes a slight step back, and that is the moment when Minseok suddenly stops seeing a patient in front of him and sees a child. He sees a little boy who is blue, whose eyes are closed, who is not breathing, whose heart is not beating, and it’s not the four-year-old drowning victim who is in front of him, it’s a five-year-old boy with Minseok’s eyes and Jangmi’s nose and a mouth that has something of each of them.

The vision lasts less than a second, but it’s a second that hits Minseok like a sledgehammer smashing into the back of his head, and he almost physically staggers. It’s only through years of forcing unwelcome thoughts into the darkest corners of his mind and locking them away that he manages to shut the flashback off. He feels for a brachial, cardioid or femoral pulse, his fingers finding the correct places in the neck, arm and groin with ingrained accuracy. Nothing. He checks the boy’s pupils with his flashlight. They’re equal and dilated on both sides, and do not respond to light. Lastly, he quickly examines the rest of his body for signs of physical injury and finds none. The whole exam from start to finish has taken less than thirty seconds.

As he works, Minseok is aware of the boy’s father refusing Aecha’s invitation to go out the front to register the patient. He sits at the end of the gurney on a chair that Aecha brings for him, and holds the boy’s feet in both his hands, rubbing them as if to warm them. By then, Songmi and another nurse who has come to assist have got the ECG leads in place and Minseok looks at the screen. There’s some artefact from compressing his chest, but no clear sign of any electrical activity in the heart. Minseok asks the paramedic to pause chest compressions again, and the line becomes straight.

“Asystole,” he says. No heartbeat. “What’s his temperature?” It’s a long shot, but people who drown in very cold water can sometimes have a long period of slow and impalpable pulse and still occasionally recover, and it is sometimes worth prolonging resuscitation. The phrase they use in the ED is “you aren’t dead until you’re warm and dead”. But Songmi replies, “36.5”. Just a tiny bit below normal. Minseok looks at the screen again, then back at the boy, and forces himself to see a four-year-old drowning victim and not his five-year-old son.

“Well, maybe it’s fine v-fib. Let’s give it a try. Start at fifty joules.” Songmi nods, and as Minseok picks up the paediatric defibrillator paddles, she begins to charge the machine. “Charging to fifty joules,” she says calmly.

Minseok waits the seconds it takes for the paddles to charge. He sometimes does this when trying to resuscitate children, because he’ll try absolutely anything to resuscitate children, no matter how much of a long shot it is. Only the finest of fine v-fib will be so small that it could be mistaken for asystole. It’s rare in adults and almost unheard of in children. What Minseok is doing is not a considered medical judgement. It’s an excuse to keep trying. They all know the little boy is dead - at least, Minseok, the paramedic, the EMT, Songmi, the respiratory therapist and the rest of the trauma team know. They’ve all seen drowned children before. Minseok can’t say what the father is thinking as he tries to warm his son’s feet in his hands. But Minseok has only had the boy in his care for less than two minutes. He can’t accept what he knows. Pretending that the heart might be in fine v-fib gives him an excuse to keep on trying. So he does.

First he shocks him, twice. Then IV epinephrine. Shocks again. Still no return. He starts amiodarone. Shocks again. Still nothing. Two minutes of chest compressions, then repeat. Fifteen minutes pass, and there is no response. This is where he’s supposed to “re-evaluate the advisability of continuing resuscitation”. That’s the protocol’s way of saying, pull yourself together. If it hasn’t worked by now, nothing will. The patient is dead.

Minseok looks at Songmi, the paramedic, the EMT. He doesn’t need to say it aloud. They already know. He turns to the father. He’s said a few words to him during the resuscitation, explaining what they’re doing and what they hope the medication will do. He’s warned him that the failure to respond is a bad sign. But now they’re beyond bad signs. “Sir,” he says. “I’m so sorry to have to say this, but -”

The father interrupts him. “No,” he says fiercely. “You can’t stop. I know he’s still here. I can feel him. He wants to come back.” As he says it, he looks up at the corner of the ceiling as if he can see the child’s spirit floating up there. He’s crying now, still holding the child’s feet, no longer paying attention to anything but his son.

Minseok looks at Songmi again. Then he says, “Continue CPR.”

He gets a chair and sits down next to the father, who stares at him and continues to cling to the child’s foot. “What happened?” he asks.

“I…don’t know,” he is now rubbing the boy’s foot with both hands as if chafing might awaken him. His words come in fits and starts, almost like he has to cough them out. “He was swimming - I - I was watching him. I don’t know how it happened. One minute he was fine and the next minute he was lying on the bottom of the pool. I jumped in and pulled him out.”

“What happened then?”

“Then…then I started pushing on his chest. Water came out when I did it. I called 119 and kept on pushing on his chest until the ambulance came. He’s going to be alright, isn’t he?” The last sentence bursts from him as if by accident. He had not meant to say it.

Minseok is silent. He knows far too well how this man is feeling, but he cannot, must not let himself empathise. This situation is too close to his own. The seven years between the incidents have vanished, and raw terror and grief and guilt are rattling at the cages he has locked them in. He has ignored them too long, and they are trying to get out. But they must not get out. Minseok cannot risk losing his grip.

“Where is his mother?” he asks. The man blinks a couple of times, and then says, “She’s shopping. She went to the supermarket.”

“Call her,” Minseok tells him, and waits until the man has fumbled a phone from his pocket with the hand not holding the child’s foot before standing up. Songmi has just rotated off chest compressions. She’s the most senior nurse present at the moment, and Minseok takes her aside.

“That man has just had his son drown while he was supposed to be watching him,” he says quietly. “There’s no way he’s going to be able to tell us to stop. So we have a choice. We can stop anyway despite what he says, or we can continue CPR and ventilation until his wife gets here and see if she can make a decision.”

“That’s fine with me,” Songmi says immediately. “Shall we move him to an exam room?”

Minseok nods. They’re starting to get more patients now that the afternoon is wearing on, and they need to free up the trauma bay. He’s aware of Songmi watching him as he goes back towards the gurney, and he knows why. From a strict medical point of view, there’s no point in continuing. He’s using valuable staff time and resources on a dead child, and it’s not like him to shy away from dealing with facts or delivering difficult news. He doesn’t let himself think about that too much either. He tells the father that they’ll continue CPR until his wife gets here and re-evaluate then, and tells the nurse and respiratory tech to move the child to a room. The paramedic and EMT leave, and Minseok sees that several more patients have checked in.

He focuses hard on the patients he sees in the next hour or so, keeps busy, builds walls in his mind. When the child’s mother arrives, she comes to the front desk and asks to see her son. Minseok intercepts her and takes her to his office. He starts to explain the situation and the condition of her son, and before long it’s clear that she gets it. He’s told her what has happened and she knows her son is dead. How she feels about that is somewhere Minseok is not going to go. He explains what they’re doing now, and she nods, then asks to see her husband and child. He takes her to the exam room where Songmi is still directing rotations of chest compressions. She puts a hand on the boy’s forehead and stands there for a while silently. She doesn’t cry. Then she turns to her husband.

“They’ve done all they can,” she says. “He’s not here anymore. It’s time to stop.”

He looks at her, tears in his eyes. Then he nods and stands. He says something, but Minseok can’t quite seem to hear it for the rushing in his ears. He watches as the father finally lets go of his son’s foot. His wife hugs him, then gently leads him from the ED. Minseok knows he will never see them again.

He’s lost track of time, and only realises when Aecha behind the main desk calls his name and asks him in a mock-scolding tone just what he thinks he’s still doing here. He glances at the clock and sees that it’s nearly 6 pm. The number strikes something inside him that the stress of the afternoon has pushed away, and he swears under his breath even as he’s spinning on his heels and running back towards his office where he left his cellphone. Eunbi. He’s forgotten Eunbi.

He doesn’t even stop to change his white coat for his outside jacket, just grabbing his phone, wallet and keys and running outside to find his car. There are six missed calls from his youngest daughter, and a string of messages.

Dad, my lesson is over. I’m waiting outside the music school :) 5:03

You know the place, right? The steps where I waited last time? 5:09

It’s okay if you’re late, I have to study my theory anyway~ 5:12

Dad?????????? 5:24

Um, it’s getting dark so I might have to call mom… 5:31

Mom’s voicemail says she’s in court. I’ll keep waiting. 5:35

I’m going to walk home. I think I know the way. You don’t have to come, it’s okay. 5:45

Minseok swears again as he stabs the call button. It’s dark and Eunbi is only eight and it’s a good five kilometres between her music school and Jangmi’s house, and she’s carrying a cello on her back that’s as nearly as tall as she is. Not good, not good. The phone rings and she answers it just as he’s unlocking his car.

“Dad?”

“Eunbi, sweetheart, I’m so sorry,” he says, overwhelmed with relief that she’s okay and guilt that he’s let her down. “There was an emergency at work and...never mind,” he breaks off. He can’t explain to his eight-year-old daughter and besides, there’s no excuse. Minseok should not have let himself lose track like that. He sank into his work rather than deal with his feelings and now Eunbi has suffered for it. “Where are you?”

“Walking home,” Eunbi sniffs, and Minseok’s heart clenches as he realises she’s crying.

“Which road? I’m in the car now, I’ll be there soon.”

He waits while Eunbi looks at her map app to find the street name. “Is there a store open nearby?” he asks.

“I just passed a convenience store.”

“Okay. I want you to go back and wait in there until I come and get you. It’s not safe for you to be out on the streets when it’s dark.” He waits until she reports that she’s in the store and sitting at one of the plastic tables where people eat the fast food and ramyun they can buy there before apologizing to her again. He sticks his earpiece in as he drives so that he can keep talking to her. He asks how her lesson went, what pieces she’s learning and which one she likes best. By the time he’s pulling up at the edge of the road, ignoring the fact that it’s a no-parking zone, she’s stopped sniffling and is telling him about how her chamber group are going to play Pachelbel’s Canon in D at the violinist’s cousin’s wedding, and the dress she’s going to wear for it, and how mind-numbingly repetitive the cello part of Pachelbel’s Canon in D is.

“I mean, it should be called Canon in Dying,” she’s saying as he crosses the sidewalk and the door of the 7-11 slides open for him, “because the cellists are literally dying of boredom while playing it.”

“I hope they’re not really literally dying,” Minseok grins as he walks up to her where she’s sitting at a plastic table, cello case leaning against the shelf beside the microwaves. She hears his voice and spins around, face lighting up as she jumps up. He opens his arms and hugs her tightly.

“I’m so sorry, princess,” he says for the third time. “I was really late, wasn’t I?”

“It’s okay, dad,” Eunbi smiles up at him sunnily, and Minseok’s heart twists with guilt again. He’d almost rather she was mad at him. He doesn’t deserve such easy forgiveness.

He puts her cello in the back seat of the car, relieved that he hasn’t gotten a ticket in the couple of minutes or so he was illegally parked. Eunbi sits next to him in the front seat and continues to chatter as they drive until her phone starts ringing in her lap. Minseok glances at her as she picks up.

“Hi, mom,” she says, and Minseok’s heart sinks a little. He remembers Eunbi’s message that she’d called Jangmi and gotten voicemail. Had she messaged her mother too? If so, Minseok is going to be in big trouble. His fingers tighten unconsciously around the steering wheel as Eunbi explains that he’s just picked her up and they’re driving home now. The dashboard clock is damning in its LED lights. 6:09. More than an hour later than he should have been.

“Mom says to bring me inside and not just drive off,” Eunbi tells him when she hangs up. It only cements Minseok’s dread. Jangmi is furious, and rightly so. He tries to stay calm as he pulls the car up the driveway. Jangmi is standing in the front doorway, backlit by the golden light from inside falling out across the porch, arms tightly folded across her chest. Minseok can see the tension in her body, and he knows that her lips will be pressed tightly together, eyes blazing.

He follows Eunbi up the path, her cello in his hand. When they get to the steps, Eunbi skips up them, then hesitates as she looks up at her mother. She has just noticed how angry Jangmi is.

“Eunbi, go inside,” Jangmi orders, and Eunbi takes her instrument from Minseok and scuttles meekly inside without a word. Minseok forces himself not to hunch his shoulders. He knows he’s in the wrong, and he’s ready to apologize, but that doesn’t mean he has to cower before his ex-wife. He opens his mouth, but she gets in first.

“I knew it,” Jangmi’s voice is tight and shaking with barely suppressed anger. “I knew you couldn’t be trusted. An hour, Minseok! You left her waiting alone outside for an hour!”

“I know,” Minseok tries to break in. “I -”

“You have no idea how much Eunbi was looking forward to you coming to pick her up,” Jangmi cuts through him. “She talked about it all week and you let her down. What is wrong with you? Why are you so irresponsible? Do you not care about the girls? Because if not, I wish you would just get lost and let us get on with our lives.”

“Of course I care about them!” Minseok finds himself raising his voice too as anger leaps up inside him. “They’re my daughters too!”

“If you truly cared about th