Wailing, an ambulance threads traffic. It rockets through red lights. A pothole jolts it onto two wheels and when it slaps back to the road the man inside it rocks on his stretcher. Equipment rattles. A paramedic steadies himself on the suction unit, barks at the driver, and pausing for the ambulance to straighten up he shouts another word and the defibrillator plunges down.
A taut face looks in from the passenger’s seat, but the stretcher is on the floor and anyway there’s a ventilator blocking her view. She wants to scream. It won’t help, but nothing she does will and that’s just it.
The moment yawns. When the paramedic rises at last he presses his lips into what might have been meant as a smile and then, knocking a rhythm on the pane of plastic separating him from the cab, he kneels down and is gone again. The woman in the passenger’s seat is sure she feels some of the urgency leech out of the driver’s steering.
The screaming impulse bubbles up again—it's not over yet, he needs every moment—but she sits back pale and tight-lipped because she's too afraid one of them will tell her there's no longer any rush.
