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The honking klaxon of the ladder truck roars from the firehouse and tears up Union Street. Stymied by the already standstill traffic of a Friday afternoon rush hour, the fire truck blares at the cars, and finally bullies it's way through oncoming traffic to the following intersection, where it leaves us.

After it's passed, I try to cross the street, but I'm caught by the gasp of the woman walking next to me, who saw the impatient driver barreling through the intersection, upset about his lot in life.

I stop, and the car passes a mere foot from me, for which I turn my head to the woman who stopped me from dying, and say, "Good job!"