It was the first thing Sergeant Shawn Burns saw with any clarity in the moments after the bombs went off: a young woman with a tangle of long black hair lying pale and still in a spreading pool of blood. Two men crouched over her, pressing a cloth into her right inner thigh. Her femoral artery, he thought. A potentially lethal wound.
He knelt with the men outside Marathon Sports, examined the wound, and told them that whatever they did, they must not move their hands. He took her face in his hands, moved closer until they were inches apart, and asked her name.