by Patrick Appel
Dan Zak chronicles it:
Medics and EMTs make their beds in pitch blackness upstairs, lie down in twin bunks and pretend to sleep to a lullaby of tones and alarms. Huge moths bump into overheard lights in the station garage, where the front grilles of ambulances exhale heat. Bloodied gurney belts soak in tubs of disinfectant.
That acrid smell?
Burned rubber.
That quiet electricity in the air?
Anticipation. The call is coming.
The Dish 