He had that look.
I asked, “How far?”
“Twenty-two miles.”
Under normal traffic, maybe thirty minutes.
At that hour, with the lights and the railroad crossing and the downtown bottleneck, maybe more.
I looked at my ticket book.
Then I looked at him.
Then I folded the ticket book and slid it back into my pocket.
“Stay on my bumper,” I said.
He blinked at me like he didn’t understand.
I was already walking back to my cruiser.
When I hit the lights, the road turned red and blue.
When I hit the siren, everything changed.
I called it in, told dispatch I was escorting a private vehicle to the hospital for a child in critical condition.
There was a pause.
Then a quiet voice came back and said, “Go.”
So I went.
I cleared the first intersection at seventy.
The second at eighty.
Cars pulled aside. Brake lights flashed. Horns sounded somewhere behind us, angry and confused, but I didn’t care.
Every second felt expensive.
That’s what I kept thinking.
Not precious.
Expensive.
Like somewhere along the line in this country, even grief had become something people had to race against and pay for.
In my mirror, his truck stayed right behind me.
Too close sometimes.
Not close enough other times.
I kept talking over the radio, clearing lanes, calling lights, asking for cross traffic to be held where they could.
My hands were steady.
My jaw wasn’t.
Halfway there, we hit a long red light near the overpass.
Four lanes locked up.
No room.
I jumped the median, swung wide, blocked the oncoming turn lane with my cruiser, and forced a hole open with lights and noise.
He followed me through it like a man following the last breath in his body.
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