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He came from Bangladesh, on the official business
of pursuit of happiness, with only a suitcase and a family of three
settling in Coventry and working at the hospital next to the big cathedral
that survived Nazis' bombardment, being a scholarly man he read lots of history and was enchanted by Rumi's poem, wondering if in his next life he could be a wandering sufi, whirling in praise of god.  Life was easy until the outbreak
and he exceeded himself helping patients, some of whom came too late to be rescued and some who came just in time to be put on the ventilators, until they were overwhelmed and patients crowded the hallway, coughing and moaning in pain.  But, he came from Bangladesh remind you, where scarcity is the norm and will to survive pretty high, so he set upon himself to
save as many as he could until that dreaded afternoon when he was faced with the stark choice no doctor should ever be presented: to choose between an elderly and a young woman, both in dire need of the last remaining ventilator.  Between the two, the woman was sicker, was unmarried and no family to feed, and the guy was a recent widower with four children who depended on him.  
Agonizing the good doctor kept asking for advice and, simultaneously, wrote down his metrics and assigned a value to factors such as age, survival chance, and the like, but the decision-time was near at hand and no time to lose, in the end it was a flip of the coin and he opted for the woman, who died nonetheless as did the older guy, agonizing the doctor's conscience to the point that in examining the next victim he removed his mask.

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