text: On September 30, 2017, my mom bought me new shoes. I had insisted that they were a pristine white that looked amazing. My mother had told me that they would get dirty very fast, but I promised her that I would keep them clean. I couldn’t live up to that. The next day, I clocked in at 12:15 pm for my weekly shift at Sunrise Hospital. It was fairly uneventful with the standard discharges, visitor escorts, and disgruntled visitor accusing me of racism for checking his ID, despite it being standard hospital procedure. These errands occupied my day. At 8:15, I texted my father to pick me up. I checked my shoes, still pearly white. 8:45: “Running late, please wait 30 minutes.” 9:15: “Still at work, I am very sorry” An hour later, I started volunteering in the ER, What was a guy supposed to do at 10:15 on October 1st, 2017? Suddenly, hundreds of people rushed into the ER, bringing with them a flood of blood. My phone vibrated with a text from my mother. “Are you okay? A gunman fired on The Strip.” Her concern was legitimate as Sunrise Hospital is five miles from the site of the shooting, but Las Vegas geography wasn’t my focus. I stared in disbelief as more victims poured in, but standing idle wasn’t an option. I was given a crash course on CPR by a nurse and went to work on those who needed it. I changed my gloves hundreds of times to minimize infection. I tended to people the best I could. I looked down and saw my white shoes succumbing to the red, but that wasn’t important. Several more nurses were called in, instructing me to get water. I sprinted to the best of my capability, the red liquid splashing up around me, as I weaved through the crowd. I commandeered an empty janitor’s cart and pushed it to the cafeteria, conveniently located on the opposite end of the hospital. My heart was pounding in my ears as I grabbed bottled water from the various fridges and tossed them in the cart. I filled up cups of water, stacking them on the shelves. As I sprinted back to the Emergency Room, leaving more bloody footprints on the tile, the wounded had doubled. I made more water trips. I held ice packs, replaced flimsy gauze, but at those moments, I wished I could do more. I kept pushing myself, harder and harder, desperately trying to help one more person, replace one more bandage, console one more mother, father, or loved one who didn't know what was happening, but after a while, I couldn't do any more. I slowly trudged to my phone, tucked away in a random locker room. I dialed for my dad, and he pulled up a few minutes later. My body and my heart were demolished as I made my way over to the car. I had never seen suffering, especially not on this scale, and I wept. Mourning for the losses that I had seen, mourning for the losses yet to come, and mourning for the gash the shooter had left on my beloved city. As we drove away, I saw the sun break through the darkness, illuminating the once black sky. Streaks of blue and pink burst through over the horizon, and as dawn broke over my city, a smile broke upon my face. That new morning, my shoes were completely red, dripping with blood. On October 2, 2017, my mom took me to buy a new pair of shoes.