Pomeroy jolted up.
In seconds they were wailing up Mass. Ave., lights flashing, speeding to a head-on on Storrow Drive—Storrow, a four-lane limited-access disaster of a highway with nothing but a guardrail between the on-coming lanes, built at a time when cars were rare and forty-five was an average speed.
The air was still, warm, muggy—air that refracts light, holds it, forms a halo around on-coming headlights, around the harsh blipping bubbletop red, blue, white from the police cruisers. It was as if no time had passed from the moment of the call to the moment he was there, outside the ambulance, hearing the horns, the curses, the wailing of an infant—as if he, they, were slides clicked to a new frame, from sleepy to the hectic horror of the Storrow Drive accident scene.
More horns. B
