“You are on a routine vehicle patrol in the city’s north side, a vast maze of winding residential neighborhoods and boxlike strip malls, when you see an older man suddenly lurch forward off a bus stop bench and fall to the sidewalk. You contact dispatch on your squad car’s radio and request a medical response to the location as you pull across both lanes, parking near the curb with your light bar pulsing.
You grab the response bag from your trunk, pull on a pair of purple exam gloves, and kneel next to the man, who is blinking rapidly and trying to sit up. “Just relax, sir,” you say. “I’m trained in emergency medical care. Is it okay if I help you?”
“No,” the man pushes your hand away. “I’m fine. I was feeling a little woozy and I think I blacked out for a minute, but I’m okay now.”
“Sir, I really think it would be better if you at least stay where you are until the ambulance gets here.” You can hear the sirens several blocks away.
“I don’t need an ambulance.” He pulls himself back up onto the bench and sits, breathing rapidly. “And I told you that I don’t want any help!”
“I get it,” you say, sitting next to the man and setting the nylon bag between your feet. “I probably wouldn’t want help if I were you.”
“Really?” He looks at you, eyebrows raised.”
