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As the ambulance siren blares, the battered cyclist howls in kind, writhing on the gurney in the back.

“Sir!” The paramedic leans in, clamping the flailing limbs with practiced force. “Sir, can you hear me? I need you to—”

“You hit me!” The cyclist shrieks. “You maniacs hit me!”

“Sir, you were attempting to cross 𝒆𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 lanes of traffic.”

“I’ll sue!” The cyclist spat. “I’ll take you for all your worth!”

“Sir, I’m gonna need you to calm down. We need to know if you have insurance.”

“Of course I don’t have insurance!” He barked. “Why do you think I ride a bike?!”

“I see. " The paramedic nods to his partner, who opens the double doors. The ambulance banks a hard left, wheels lifting off the ground.

The cyclist grips the gurney rails for dear life. “What are you doooooiiiiing?!”

The rubber meets the road and the vehicle zips down the thoroughfare.

“If you can’t pay,” the paramedic calmly explains. “We’ll have to ask you to leave.”

“B-but you hit me!”

“If you can’t pay…”

“I don’t have any money!”

The paramedic prods the purple-black bloom of his bruised stomach. “How many kidneys do you have?”

“W-what?”

“It’s simple question.”

“I don’t know!” The cyclist blurts out in confusion. “Two?!”

The paramedic dons gloves, masks up, and pulls a scalpel from his trauma bag. “We can work with that.” He flicks the blade.

The cyclist’s eyes widen in horror. “What are y—”

“Of course, I have to warn you: this may not cover the full bill.” The paramedic leans in and pulls down the mask. “Damaged goods and all.” Ω