Jacobson is nearing the end of her residency, but she’s stuck in the midst of a night from hell—three codes in a row—and her free-fall adrenaline response to the alarm that means someone is dying.

A shriek in the darkness drew out my shallow, sleeping breath in a singular gasp. Disoriented in the windowless room, I felt a familiar pounding in my chest that jostled my brain awake. As I fumbled for the light, the small black box continued its ear-splitting siren as it fell off the nightstand and bounced under the bed. I knelt on the gray, stained carpet and fished the beast out from the dusty collection of medical journals and soda cans that lived there. Squinting in the fluorescent light, I saw that the digital numberspeering out from behind the paper gowns and masks required in the rooms of those with serious and contagious infections. They clutched her hands, one on each side, leaving only when the nurse quietly but firmly asked them to step out when the code began. The chaplain guided them away as thick purple blood trickled from her nose and mouth with the chest compressions. My colleagues and I marched down the code protocol, cracking vials of ultrapotent medications, hanging bags of IV fluid and blood, pushing them with a silent prayer through her veins. Her blood pressure continued to fall, and her heart ultimately failed despite our desperate attempts to do something, anything, we could. I looked down at her young, bloated face, the dark eyes so similar