The full moon blazes across the ocean in front of us, bathing everything in cool white light. High tide caresses the sea wall; the stairs end directly in seawater. Small waves whisper against the concrete. The radio murmurs, Favorite Dispatcher directing a flurry of activity.
We are the last line of defense, balanced on the cusp between Sin City and the Eastern Front.
The Powerstroke purrs, its diesel din somehow muted by the cool spring night. Regular Partner snores softly in the passenger seat, as the occaisional car drifts slowly past. I can see the lights of the Big City skyline in the middle distance.
The low hum of the stereo is barely distinguishable as music. Strangely the heater begins to cycle, alternately blowing warm and cool breezes onto my hands.
“Attention Medic 9. . .”
One 911 call could shatter it all.
“Medic 9, you are clear for quarters.”
But not tonight.