The address I'm given is wrong. Only by a few doors, but as I stop the car and get out, I'm confused by the young lady 10 houses further up screaming in terror.
"He's in here! His breathing's really noisy! Quick! Help!"
The look of horror on her face tells me that this isn't one of those unnecessary panics, but that it's the real deal. I quickly check with control that they have no other calls on this street, and they confirm that it must have just been a typing error when putting the call on the computer.
I grab my bags and speed upstairs, to find that the noisy breathing's stopped. In fact, the breathing has stopped. Full stop. I place the defib pads on his chest and the screen shows VF. The chaotic, non-rhythmical flutterings of a useless heart.
But there's hope. This is a rhythm that could benefit from a shock. The defib shouts its commands.
"Shock advised. Stand Clear. Charging."
I warn the family that it isn't a pretty sight. Some look away, others watch in fear. I press the button and his lifeless body leaps off the bed. The crew arrive, and we move him to the floor. CPR continues, he's intubated, cannulated, we breath for him, pump his heart for him. The defib, with its disembodied voice speaks again, repeating the sequence of orders. The orange button flashes silently, and as its pressed, discharges another shock. His body jumps again.
Ten compressions later, he takes a breath. We watch, awed by the scene of such a rare sight. This is what we're trained for. This is what we strive for. This is what we hope for. It's just that we so rarely see it actually happen.
We finish dealing with him, tidy up, restock, re-energise. I attend my next call knowing that I've just been part of saving someone's life.
It's a good feeling.