Page 84 of Look on the Bright Side

“My fiancé is in critical condition at Dana-Farber and I need to get there and I’m stuck in traffic on 93 in Quincy.”

She heard typing. “Ma’am? How can we help?”

“Can I get a police escort? Please? I have to get there. He’s…he doesn’t have long.” Don’t let that be true. Let that just be her pulling out all the stops.

More typing. “Stay on the line, ma’am.”

Please help me. Please help me. Please. Please.

The dispatcher came back on. “Ma’am, the police in the area are unavailable. There’s a—”

“Help me!” she screamed. “Help me get there before he dies!”

“Ma’am, I’m so sorry. We can’t do anything at this—”

Lark hung up. Ahead of her, brake lights glowed like the gates of hell. Fine. She’d get off the highway. There was an exit, just past National Grid. She shoved her way in front of the car in the center lane, ignoring the horn blasts and curses, then did it again to get into the line of cars for the exit, which was just as packed. “Come on, come on, come on,” she sobbed. “Hurry!”

She turned on Freeport Street, heading northwest toward the hospital. If Boston had been like other, normal cities, she wouldn’t have to deal with all these one-way streets, but no, it had to be a tangled mass of yarn. Once she hit Hancock Street, though, it should be easier. Still, the traffic was barely moving. She could stay on Hancock or take Pleasant.

But they weren’t moving now. At all. Why? She was so close! She laid on the horn and then…then she saw the smoke. And lights. Fire trucks and police cars had their lights flashing and were directing traffic to do a U-turn. But a U-turn was impossible, because now traffic was backed up on both sides of the street. No one was moving an inch.

She was four miles away from Justin, give or take. Four miles. She could run it if she had to.

Lark turned off the car, grabbed her bag, flung open the door and ran toward the first responders. Cops were milling about, doing whatever cops did at fires, being useless, really, when they could’ve given her an escort. Firefighters tromped around, dragging hoses and talking into radios. A ladder was extended toward the smoke. So many trucks, so many people, so much noise, not to mention all the bystanders filming on their stupid phones.

“Please!” she yelled at a cop. She grabbed his arm, which he immediately pulled away. “Please help me! I have to get to the hospital!” She was shaking head to foot, and God, it was hot. Her shirt was stuck to her with sweat.

“Are you hurt, ma’am?” He looked her up and down. “Or are you lookin’ for a fix?”

“No! My fiancé is sick and—”

“Yeah, we can’t help you, lady.” The cop had a thick Dorchester accent. “Take a look around, okay? The Asian mahket’s on fiyah. Get back in your cah.”

“Fuck you,” she spat, then ran to a firefighter. They were nicer, anyway. No one ever protested about firefighter brutality, did they? “Please help me,” she blurted, then dropped to her knees as her legs gave out. “Please help me.” She grabbed on to his leg and looked up at him. His helmet read District Commander. “My fiancé has leukemia, and he’s at Dana-Farber, and he’s…he’s dying. Help me! Help me! Please!” She grabbed on to her own hair, and she didn’t recognize her own voice, it was so hoarse and terrified. “Please! Please help me.” Sobs of anguish and despair ripped out of her, and the pain made her fold over.

There was a hand on her back. “Okay, dahlin’, we can do that. Take it easy, now. We got you.” He pulled her to her feet. “Hey, you,” he called to someone. “Over here. The lady needs a ride to Dana-Fahbah. Take my cah, lights and sirens.”

“Yes, sir.” He wore turnout gear and took Lark by the arm. She stumbled, and he slid his arm around her, There was something wrong with her legs. “Right this way, miss,” he said, practically carrying her.

There was an SUV with Boston Fire written on the side, and he opened the door for her, lifted her in, then went to the driver’s side, slid off his jacket and got in. The vehicle made some bleeps and whoops, and then they were moving, past the other trucks, taking a right, then a left.

Lark was shaking so hard she wondered if she was having a convulsion. She was gasping, unable to catch her breath. The tears that had been dammed for the past twelve weeks burst forth, and her nose was running. Please. Please. Please. She might have been talking out loud.

“Try to take a deep breath and hold it, miss,” said the firefighter, but she barely heard him. “We’re almost there.”

With shaking hands, she texted Heather. Almost there. Minutes.

The firefighter put a hand on her shoulder and gave it a squeeze.

Another left, a few more blocks, and even in this car with its flashing lights and blips and bleats, it was taking so long.

Finally, they were here.

The firefighter pulled to the curb. “I hope everything—”

She flung open the door before the vehicle even stopped, and ran, her purse flopping at her hip. In the lobby she looked around, frantic. She should’ve asked what room he was in. Which floor. She started to text Heather again, then saw Theo.

He was slumped against the wall next to the elevators, sitting on the floor. “Theo!” she said, running toward him. “What…”

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