Smoker
Midnight dispatches are of two sorts: there’s the drunk-taxi/minor assault sort and the nightmare critical sort. The other night belonged to the second category.
Dispatch: “Hi 858, you’re going five minutes north on the highway, by the buffalo farm, for an MVA, semi vs. pickup head-on, both vehicles on fire and one of the drivers missing.”
We came around the long curve a mile or two before the farm, and saw a solid orange glow glittering with red and blue. The vehicles were on their sides on opposite sides of the road, completely engulfed in flames. A ring of burning grass was spreading from the semi to the trees. Flashlight beams shot back and forth in the ditches. It was one of those scenes where every cop, paramedic and fire-fighter has a look of awestruck urgency. We loaded our patient and were about to head to hospital when a member of our backup crew opened my door to ask if I needed help. “No, thanks. I think they’re just trying to find the other driver, maybe you could…” “The other driver’s been found.” Her voice was quiet, and I glanced up to see the first unhurried face of the night.