It's just before nine on a Monday night. I'm driving the speed limit in the company truck down a long, unlit road, peering ahead for flashing lights. I'd rather be home under blankets.
There's a tightness in the centre of my chest like there always is when I'm out covering a rollover. I'm always scared what I will find; my own accident can't help but replay in my head.
There are times--like this--that I think I haven't yet dealt with all that I need to. There are times I feel this desperate need to shut down and shut out. I make to-do lists instead and strike things off one by one. Because it is inaction that's fatal. Because life leaves me no choice.
On the way back to the office tonight I will think about the four injured children and how they will deal with today's brush with death. I will write and file a nameless six-inch brief, grass and dirt from the scene still clinging to uncovered heels. I will wander off in search of ibuprofen.
Ninety minutes left in the Night Cops shift and hours of reading and studying stretch before me. I am Superwoman. Yes, I am. Yes, I am.
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