“I said start your engine!”
I was already sprinting back to the cruiser before I could talk myself out of it. I hit the lights and the siren in one motion, the world exploding into red and blue chaos. Dispatch crackled through the speaker, asking for a status update.
I keyed the mic and took a breath.
“Dispatch, Unit 27. I am initiating a priority medical escort. Eastbound on 70 toward Grant Medical. I am clearing a path.”
And just like that, I wasn’t a cop writing a ticket anymore. I was a shepherd trying to beat the Reaper in a four-door sedan held together by hope and rust.
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