As I drove slowly towards the mob of angry protestors and my meeting with 200, I thought of 199. The ashes of a once hard man, staring at me with wide eyes that pleaded for hope like a dog begging for treats. I’d somehow found a way to give him that hope. But I remembered the stench on him when he first came in. A man who had not bathed or changed clothes in who knew how long. Even when he did clean up, halfway through our sessions, I could still smell the decay. And even after that final session, he left a waft of it clinging to the floor.

My car purred almost soundlessly as it drove itself forwards, inching toward the chanting ranks of people and their placards. A cop who looked ready to fall asleep motioned me through the barricade as other officers stood at alert and kept the crowd parted. The picketers screamed the usual insults at me as I drove through them: murderer, bitch, slut, and worse. They had no idea who I was. I could have been any female employee—a janitor, a nurse, an office junior—but they didn’t care. They were hurting and they wanted someone else to feel it. They didn’t know how many lives I had saved. Maybe if I posted my save numbers on the car, I’d be greeted with less rancor.