I've been a paramedic in Chicago for six years now.

If you've never worked emergency medicine in a major city,

let me paint you a picture.

It's chaos. Beautiful, terrible chaos.

You get used to the overdoses and gas station bathrooms, the car accidents on the Dan Ryan at rush hour,

the cardiac arrests in cramped apartments where you're doing compressions while family members scream in your ear.

You learn to compartmentalize, to be able to eat your lunch 30 minutes after watching someone die. You learn that most people's

worst day is just another Tuesday for you. My partner, Magnus, has been doing this for 15 years.

He's seen everything twice over. Gang shootings, house fires, you name it.

Magnus is the guy who stays calm when everyone else is losing their minds.

He's the guy who can talk down a psych patient having a violent episode

or crack a joke dark enough to make you forget the smell of burnt flesh.

He's taught me more about this job than any textbook ever could.

But here's the thing about Magnus that always struck me as odd.

About once a month, we get a call that doesn't make it into our official reports.

I noticed the pattern about two years in.

We'd respond to something, usually weird,

usually in a part of the city that feels just slightly off,

and Magnus would handle everything.

He'd always drive on those calls,

wouldn't let me take the wheel,

even when it was my turn in the rotation. And afterward, the paperwork would be minimal.

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