Meyerson pressed the siren button with his foot.

“The man!” somebody shouted.

Other voices took it up and immediately they were an island in a sea of people. Hands began to hammer on the metal sides of the ambulance.

Meyerson rolled up his window. “They’re going to kill us.”

In a moment the ambulance began to rock.

Spurgeon released the handle and shoved his shoulder against the door, sending somebody outside flying. He got out of the ambulance and scrambled onto the hood and stood there, his back to the two men within.

“I’m a brother,” he shouted into the strange faces.

“What are they—cousins?” somebody called, and there was laughter.

“We’re doctors, on our way to pick up a man who’s been hurt. He needs our help and you’re keeping us from him.”

“Is he a brother?” a voice shouted.

“Hell, yes, he’s a brother.”

“Let them through!”

“Hell, yes!”

“Doctors gonna help a brother!” He could hear the word being passed.

He sat on the hood: nine years of higher education to become a radiator ornament. Inside, Meyerson turned the spotlight on him. Very slowly, the ambulance moved forward, the people parting before, as if he were Moses and they the waters.

Soon they were clear.

Meyerson made certain they were half a dozen blocks away before he stopped the ambulance and allowed Spurgeon to get back inside.

They found the bar. The wounded man was lying face-down on the floor, his trousers sodden with dark blood. There was no sign of anyone who might have shot him, nor was there a weapon. The onlookers denied knowledge.

Spurgeon cut away the bloodsoaked pants and undershorts. “The bullet passed clean through the gluteal maximus,” he said in a moment.

“You sure it still isn’t in there?” Adam said.

He touched the wound with a fingertip and nodded as the man bucked and groaned. They placed the patient on the litter on his stomach.

“Is it bad?” the man gasped.

“No,” Spurgeon said.

“You got shot in the ass,” Meyerson said, grunting as he picked up his end of the litter.

In the ambulance Adam gave the patient oxygen and Spurgeon sat next to Meyerson. Maish didn’t use the siren. A few minutes after the return ride had begun, Spurgeon realized they were approaching “frontier” territory in North Dorchester, an uneasy neighborhood where the black population was spreading into hitherto white streets.

“You’re taking the long way,” he told Meyerson.

“It’s the shortest way out of Roxbury,” Meyerson said; he swung the wheel and the ambulance turned a corner and then squealed to a stop as he jammed his foot on the brake. “Now what the hell?” he said.

A parked car, door open, blocked one end of the narrow street to traffic. The other side was equally cut off by two boys about sixteen, one colored and one white, standing toe-to-toe and flailing each other.