The radio crackled to life as you parked the ambulance at the corner of Washington and 3rd, just down the street from the Schuman Health Care Center.
"We have a report of a multi-vehicle collision at the intersection of Main and 7th. All units, respond."
You gripped the steering wheel tighter, glancing at Johnson. He gave a curt nod, as solid as ever.
"Let's go, Scott."
You flipped on the siren and peeled away from the curb, threading through the chaotic midday traffic. The city blurred around you—honking horns, flashing lights, moving bodies—but your focus narrowed. The rush of adrenaline was familiar, grounding. It reminded you of another life, one where every second mattered, and survival was never guaranteed.
The crash site was already a mess by the time you arrived. Two vehicles had collided head-on. A third had swerved and hit a pedestrian. Black smoke rose from twisted hoods, the acrid scent of burnt rubber filling your lungs.
You parked at an angle and jumped out, grabbing your medical bag from the rear. Johnson headed for the first car—a woman slumped behind the wheel, blood smeared down her temple.
"She's alive. Pulse is weak," Johnson said, fingers pressed to her wrist. "We need to extract her."
You hauled out the hydraulic spreader. With a metallic groan, the door gave way. Her head lolled sideways as you leaned in.
"Stay with us," you said, voice low but firm.
You stabilized her neck and spine, then the two of you lifted her onto the stretcher. As Johnson prepped the back of the ambulance, you turned toward the sidewalk—where the pedestrian lay motionless, blood pooling beneath his skull.
Johnson was already kneeling beside him.
"Massive head trauma," he muttered. "GCS is critical."
(Glasgow Coma Scale (GCS): a neurological scale used by medics and doctors to assess a patient's level of consciousness after a traumatic brain injury.)
You dropped beside him, opened a new IV line, and administered a quick dose of epinephrine. His breathing shuddered but started to stabilize.
"We've got to move him. We don't have time to wait for another unit."
"We'll double up in the back," Johnson said grimly. "We'll figure it out."
You nodded, already lifting the man as Johnson cleared space inside the rig. You'd barely started loading him when a piercing cry drew your attention—a child, maybe five years old, trapped in the back seat of the third car. A deep cut split her forehead. Her father slumped over the wheel, unmoving.
You sprinted.
"Hang in there, kid."
The door was jammed, but you forced it open with a sharp crack. She looked up at you, eyes wet and glassy.
You lifted her carefully into your arms. She trembled against you, bleeding badly.
"She's losing blood fast," you called out. "We need a second unit—now."
"Already called," Johnson replied, strapping down the others. "We're running out of space in here."
You laid her gently on a bench seat next to the main stretcher. It wasn't ideal, but you made do—applying pressure to the gash, gauze already soaked through.
"It's okay, sweetie. You're going to be alright," you whispered.
"It hurts..." she whimpered.
"I know. But you're being very brave."
You kept her talking to keep her conscious. Asked about her toys. Her favorite cartoons.
"Do you like dolls or cars?"
"Dolls..." Her voice was fading, thread-thin.
"Do you have a favorite?"
"Lucy..." A smile—tiny, but real.
"Lucy's a nice name. I bet she's tough like you."
The bleeding slowed. Her vitals began to stabilize. Still, she was pale. You kept one hand on her as Johnson slammed the doors.
"Let's go."
The ambulance tore through the streets, sirens howling. You worked non-stop—monitoring vitals, replacing gauze, injecting fluids. The woman's pulse strengthened. The pedestrian's breathing grew steadier. The girl clung to your hand like it was the last solid thing in the world.
At the ER, you barely had time to speak.
"Three patients. One adult female, stable vitals. One pedestrian, GCS 6, head trauma. One pediatric, forehead laceration, significant blood loss but stabilized."
"Don't leave me," the girl murmured, reaching up.
"I'll be right here, kiddo," you promised, giving her hand a final squeeze before the staff whisked her away.
You stood outside, exhaling slowly, blood dried on your gloves. Johnson joined you, his uniform just as stained.
"Hell of a run," he said.
"We need to re-supply," you replied, already turning toward the rig.
"No time."
The radio crackled again.
"All units, gang shootout in progress. Corner of 8th and Jefferson. Haitians and Cubans involved. Multiple casualties. Proceed with caution."
Johnson's jaw tightened.
"No rest for the wicked."
The scene on 8th was pure chaos. Gunfire echoed through the streets. People screamed and scattered. Abandoned cars cluttered the road, doors left swinging. A nearby SUV burned, flames licking toward the sky. Police sirens screamed. Flashing lights strobed against buildings riddled with bullet holes.
You brought the ambulance to a halt behind a cruiser.
"Dispatch said this was contained," Johnson muttered.
"Looks like that was optimistic."
You both threw on your masks, knowing this wasn't protocol. Medics didn't go in until scenes were cold. But there wasn't time to wait.
Bullets cracked overhead as you crouched low, dashing toward a fallen man near the sidewalk. Blood soaked his shirt. He clutched his abdomen, wide-eyed.
"It's gonna be okay," you said, dropping to your knees beside him. "You're not alone."
"I don't wanna die..."
"You won't. Stay with me."
You pressed a trauma dressing to his side. Johnson waved from another corner—another victim down.
"We've got to move them now!" he shouted.
You nodded. The young man was light, barely conscious, and you dragged him toward a car for cover.
Just as you reached the bumper, three gang members appeared—guns raised, scanning.
"Shit..."
A uniformed officer slammed into cover beside you.
"We've got you. Move!"
"Johnson! Now!"
Johnson hoisted a second victim over his shoulder, and together, under the cover of police fire, you dashed back to the ambulance. Bullets zipped past. Glass shattered. But you made it.
"Go! I've got them!" Johnson shouted, slamming the doors as you jumped behind the wheel.
The drive to the hospital was fast—horns, red lights, the groans of wounded patients in the back. Johnson yelled instructions while treating them mid-bounce, sweat streaking down his blood-smeared face.
One victim cried out.
"I can't... I can't feel my legs."
"Stay with me," Johnson said, voice firm. "You're going to make it."
You caught a glance in the mirror—blood pooling under the stretcher.
"Hold on," you muttered. "We're almost there."
The ER came into view. You swung into the bay hard.
Staff poured out.
"Gang shootout," you rasped. "Multiple GSWs. Critical."
They swarmed the back. You handed off the victims, one by one.
Then, at last, you stepped out, shoulders sagging under the weight of it all. Johnson stood beside you, silent.
"Hell of a day," he said eventually.
You nodded, heartbeat still thrumming in your ears.
"Yeah. But we made a difference."
The city behind you was still on fire. But in that moment, standing under the flickering red lights, you knew you'd show up again tomorrow.
Because someone had to.