Like anyone else, paramedics in Tel Aviv have families, money troubles, trivial pursuits. They dwell in darkness and are intimately acquainted with the elusive quality of the moment between life and death. These workers have been called to the scenes of a terrorist attacks, where they often earn a moment of fame in newspaper photos the day after. The job description is “life support.” A terrorist’s victim, the drunk driver, the old man with a weak heart are all the same in a sense—united in this fraction of time and space, this small window of opportunity. After a night’s hard work, they collapse on the couch with a beer, complain about the mortgage or the weather. Or both.