2
Vivian Davis
I sat in the back of the private ambulance Snook provided and dealt out the cards for yet another round of solitaire. As usual, he’d offered to let me sit next to him and watch the fights. I declined. Again. Politely. I sat in the rig. I waited. I patched up the fighters who needed stitches or fluids. Sometimes antibiotics. On the rare occasion, we would actually take them to a nearby hospital, where I would describe picking up the wounded man after a bar brawl or street fight.
In this neighborhood the doctors and nurses didn’t even bat an eye. No one asked questions because no one wanted to know. Gunshot wounds were much more common in the emergency room on a Friday night. Someone who had a concussion, a few lacerations, or an internal bleed from a fistfight was generall
