I keyed the mic.
“Dispatch, Unit 27. Acknowledged on the 670 construction. I’m going to use the westbound express lane shoulder to bypass the backup. Can you patch me through to Grant Medical ER? I need a charge nurse on the line.”
There was a pause. Using the express lane shoulder was a massive liability. If a semi-truck driver fell asleep and drifted six inches to the right, we’d be turned into scrap metal and confetti. But sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic watching the clock tick toward a flatline? That wasn’t an option either.
“Stand by, 27. Patching now.”The radio hissed. I kept my left hand steady on the wheel, my right hand hovering over the switch for the air horn. The concrete barriers of the construction zone loomed ahead, orange barrels zipping past in a blur of reflective tape. The road narrowed like a funnel. I saw the red sea of brake lights ahead—a solid wall of commuters going nowhere.
“Hold on, Mr. Harper,” I muttered to the empty car, as if he could hear me. “This is gonna get bumpy.”
