This is everything N. has dreamed about. His blue pen moves terribly slowly over the notebook. He tosses it away, pulls a digital recorder, which he presciently took with him, out of his leather shoulder bag, and turns it on without asking permission, after which he picks up the notebook and continues writing, so as to keep the policeman's focus on the notebook and not on the recorder.

N. thinks they'll spend the whole night like this and is satisfied. These stories will help him finish his novel no problem and then he'll only have to wait for the fame to arrive with its publication. Then, at 4 a.m. the police radio informs Z. of a suicide attempt in the region.

Z. turns on the siren and heads to the location of the incident at lightning speed, as if he has completely forgotten about N.'s presence in the squad car.

Through the deserted morning streets, they quickly reach the three-storey house, onto whose roof has climbed a husky and visibly inebriated man around the age of thirty, who is waving a pistol around and screaming that if his best friend doesn't show up, he'll jump. Z. is the first police officer to arrive. The fire department has also been called, but they won't come for another twenty minutes. Z. finds out that the Alert Shot Bar is located in the building from the bawling female bartender, who has just closed up the place for the night. Z. promises her that he will not allow the man, whose name is D., to get hurt. Most of these cases, Z. comforts her, are just drunken nonsense. Your friend doesn't really want to jump. It's one of those stories you forget as soon as you wake up in the morning.

Z. talks to D. or rather shouts with him. He tries to convince him that there is no point in jumping and begs him to come down. D. hurls roof tiles at him and keeps waving the pistol around. This continues for ten minutes or so until N., who had remained in the squad car, goes over to Z and quietly asks him whether this is the standard procedure.

Thus Z. is reminded of N.'s presence and of the fact that at the moment he is a composite image of all police officers. In our profession, there are no standard procedures, he tells N. and asks the weeping bartender how to get up on the roof and rushes into the house.

N. is riled up. He never imaged that he would find himself in the middle of a police operation, especially one that would pose no risk to N. himself. Being at a shoot-out would be another kettle of fish entirely, now wouldn't it? But this is something unimportant. Drunken nonsense. Some boozer, who will get down off the roof any minute now. And despite that, the situation is real, a human life hangs by a thread. Perhaps N. has dreamed his whole life of experiencing something like this.

Three minutes later Z.'s voice can be heard from a window beneath the roof, saying that he's going to come up there. I'm coming up there with you, he tells D., don't shoot. I'm not armed. He reaches out and grabs a beam and hoists himself up. D. threatens him, raises the gun and fires into the air. Z. has already crawled up onto the roof. D. aims the pistol at him. It's a gas pistol, you can't kill me with that, Z. says, apparently having reached this conclusion from the sound of the shot. Yeah, but I can stun you and then you'll fall, D. replies. His finger trembles on the trigger.