I count the beat of his heart with my fingertips for thirty seconds and multiply by two. Just like the monitor, I calculate his pulse to be fifty-four beats per minute. But unlike the monitor, my fingers tell me his pulse is weak and tired. It has no snap against the volar pad of my index and middle fingers. There is no tiny hum, buzz, or bound like that of an athlete’s pulse. Instead, it is just quiet steps that plod along and bide their time.
