I fell to the ground from exhaustion and a bullet wound to the side. I screamed and figured the others would run to safety. That's what I wanted them to do. There was no use saving me. I was a dead man walking and I wanted to die.

But then something terrible happened. Out of the corner of my eye I saw his figure fall to my side and then felt him scramble to cover me.

No! I thought. This isn't right! He's going to die!

I didn't have time to react before the bullets pelted the life out of Robert Michael Nesmith. He'd sheltered me completely and had effectively kept the bullets from reaching me.

He saved me by sacrificing his life for mine. I should have been overflowing with gratitude. But I was mad that he'd done this. He knew I needed to die here. Why wasn't he letting me? I was also mad that he bestowed upon me the horror of feeling his last breath, hot on my ear.

He was dead! 

For thirty minutes I laid under my dead friend. I wished I could move. But I physically couldn't. I wondered if I'd been paralyzed. Then I remembered I'd been able to move before. A bullet must have slipped through Mike's shield. Or perhaps I was frozen out of respect for what Mike had done. To move would be suicide. How could I throw away Mike's life?