how to save a life } } python

He was hanging his scrubs out to dry when the sun crept over the horizon. Their particular medical center was the wealthiest in district eight, but “wealthy” was an exaggerating term to use out of context. They had the highest budget, but every facility had their struggles to earn supplies and cater to suffering patients. One advantage for living in the textile district, however, was the unlimited amount of fabric available to residents. They would never run short of blankets, linens, bandages, gowns, scrubs or anything of that nature, and that was why Machaon’s clothing line was full of drenched scrub tops hanging to dry in the breeze. He had plenty more to wear to work tomorrow.

Mom was working a double shift and dad was at the factory until five o’clock, slaving away to weave new dresses and skirts for little girls in the district and in the capitol, as if they all didn’t have enough luxurious shit from their own flourishing businesses. This left Machaon with a house to himself on his only day off, but he had no intent to stay cooped up in an empty building with nothing to occupy himself with. Instead he shrugged on his leather jacket and strolled to the nearest café with his wallet tucked into his back pocket, half-bursting with paper earnings waiting to be wasted on sugary pastries and caffeine. When he walked inside, the employee over the counter recognized him and greeted him with a curt nod. ”The usual?” he asked, opening his register as Machaon withdrew his wallet. ”Yeah, but hold the dessert.”

Moments later he was sitting in a booth with a hot cup of coffee in his right hand and a newspaper in his left. ”Victor of the 66th Hunger Games: Colgate O’leary, District Nine Male Tribute.” Was the boldest and biggest headline plastered at the top of the main page, with a photo of the boy beneath it. That was faintly interesting. He never really paid attention to the Games; he witnessed enough death on a daily basis at the hospice center, so why would he take the time to sit his miserable ass in the Square and watch children kill each other? It would only add to the burdens plaguing his brain. All he really needed to know was the victor’s name, and now he could see who it was. He was from a lower district one even poorer than his own. That was different. Soon enough it would be all everybody talked about; how the victor was going to visit them and give that robotic speech, how all of the citizens were going to dress up nicely for his presentation and “celebrate” his victory while the families of the district eight tributes mourned. Everyone would have to leave their jobs for the occasion. Oh boy.

As his eyes flickered to the next headline he heard a commotion to his left, a violent cough and the grating sound of a chair sliding against the floor. Someone probably tripped or fell – not his problem, they were too far away to be helped. But then the coughing continued, and faded to a disturbing wheezing noise. He finally looked up when he heard a woman shout ”He’s choking!” He sat still when he spotted the man clutching his throat, eyes bulging out of their sockets as his cheeks turned a dangerous shade of violet. Some girl a few tables over rushed over to him and hauled him to his feet. Good, she seems like she knows what she’s doing. But then she started to jam her fists into his gut like an amateur, and Machaon stood up to intervene.

”I got it,” he said, nonchalantly walking up behind the struggling old man. He had dealt with choking patients before, and the procedures were branded into his mind like clockwork. ”I’m going to help you, okay? I’m a medical professional. Lean forward for me,” he said, wrapping his left arm around the man’s torso to support his weight. Then he thrust the bottom of his palm against the man’s upper back one, two, three, four, five times, to dislodge whatever food item was obstructing his windpipe. He could already feel every gaze locked on his movements as he wrapped both arms around the man’s waist and thrust the double fist in an upward motion against his abdomen. On the fourth try, a chunk of soggy, half-chewed pastry flew out of his mouth, and the man yanked himself free of his grip and leaned over the nearest table to capture his breath.

He could hear murmurs of awe and relief piping up around the cafe, but he couldn't care less about having an audience. ”Thank you, young man..” the old man said between ragged breaths. ”Thank you.” Gratitude was an expected reaction. He merely nodded in return, and without another word fetched his coffee and headed for the exit.

He couldn’t find any fucking peace around here.