I brace one hand against the shower wall, head hanging for a second as the water beats down over me. I hate the days when I’m still cleaning up the back of the rig from one call while Scott drives code three to the next call. It’s just too much sometimes, when we’re so overworked that we can’t take a moment to settle after the kind of call that leaves the gurney, floor, and tools covered in blood.
I stay under the spray longer than I should, letting time blur as my fingers prune.
With a reluctant sigh, I finally get to actually washing the day away, starting with my hair.
By the time I step out of the shower, after another brief and irritating fight with the track, my skin is flushed pink all over. But it feels good; it feels warm. The plush teal mat catches the dripping water from my hair while I reach for a towel and wrap it around myself. Steam curls along the ceiling, fogging the mirror completely. I swipe a hand over it, clearing it and then just… stand there.
The reflection staring back at me looks far more tired than it did the last time I looked at it. But I’m not ready to accept what that means yet.
“Food,” I murmur to my own reflection. “You need food.”
I dry off enough to not drip everywhere and pull on an oversized college t-shirt and a pair of sleep shorts. Then I twirl my brown locks in the towel and prop it on top of my head before heading to the kitchen.
Pip has finished eating and retreated to his favorite spot, the back of the couch, for a post-dinner nap. He doesn’t even stir as I walk past to the kitchen.
The clock above the stove tells me I was in the shower a lot longer than intended. No surprise there.
I pad into the kitchen, open the fridge, and pull out the only food in there: leftovers. At least they’re good leftovers, the last of my honey barbeque chicken with mac and cheese. Really the only thing of note is the chicken because I was going to like the mac and cheese no matter what. Boxed mac and cheese, despite being a bit basic, is my favorite food. Nothing else has ever beat it. It was the first food I learned how to make on my own and it still holds a sentimental value because of that.
I pop the lid off the container and stick it in the microwave, hammering the “Add 30 secs” button repeatedly rather than actually inputting a time and pressing “Start”.
I grab a fork from the silverware drawer then pull the ice cube tray from the freezer heading to the cabinet next to the sink to grab a glass.
That’s when it happens.
At first, it’s just a sound, sharp and cracking through the silence. My brain doesn’t register it right away, still sluggish from exhaustion. But then it comes again and again.
Finally, my brain catches up. Gunshots.
Gun fire erupts outside, shattering my quiet evening and startling me so badly that I drop the ice cube tray into the sink with a sudden yelp. More gun shots follow it sounding like they’re coming from a different part of the street… Like an exchange of shots.
“Shit.” Oh, come on. I know my neighborhood is bad, but this is a bit much.
I drop low, instinctively, heart kicking into overdrive as adrenaline floods my system, burning away the lingering fatigue.
Another burst echoes, louder this time, followed by screeching tires and distant shouting voices.
It stops pretty quickly but not before it sets my nerves on end… and wakes poor Pip. I peek over the counter and look into the living room at the ball of orange still curled up on the back of the couch. He gives me a confused ear twitch and climbs down off the back of the couch onto the middle cushion like he’s seeking shelter from the windows and the noise outside the way I’d just done behind the kitchen counter.
I stand there frozen, waiting for something, anything, to happen. I respond to this shit; I don’t live in it.
Wait, that’s right. I respond to this kind of thing, and there could be injured people outside.
I creep slowly to the windows, making my way to the one closest to the bathroom, knowing that’s the only one not facing the fire escape and will give me the clearest view of the street below. Looking down onto the street, I see someone leaning against that vehicle that I’d eyed up earlier while sitting in front of the office building. The driver’s side door is open with a man in slacks and a button-up shirt tucked into the shielding angle the open door creates. He’s holding onto his upper arm and there’s clearly blood coming from a wound. Even four stories up I can see that.
Panning down the street, there’s two men lying on the ground with another man, with red hair, standing over them pointing a gun at them with one hand and holding a radio to his mouth with the other. They’re both face down, hands clasped behind their heads, but most importantly, seemingly uninjured.
Ok, definitely giving cop vibes. But the guy by the car has me worried.
I race into my bathroom, grabbing my med kit from the cabinet under the sink. It started as a first aid kit, but I kept expanding it over the years. Occasionally I’d respond to a call where I realize that the patient could have been helped by a more extensive first aid kit in the home. So, I kept adding to mine, simply as another “just in case” measure.
Throwing the bag over my shoulder, I head for the door, slipping on some tennis shoes and grabbing my keys on the way out the door.
Skipping the elevator to run down the stairs instead, I make it to the ground floor and out the front door of my building in under thirty seconds. My eyes pan the street to make sure that the scene is still the same as what I saw upstairs.
Once I’m assured that nothing else has developed, I make my way to the bleeding man. He’s tall, easily over six feet, with dark brown hair and a scruffy beard over a chiseled jaw. But theshadows between the overhead streetlights make his hair look almost black. And he’s wearing a police badge on his belt like they do in the movies.
Geez, why’s that so hot? Especially on him.
