The code to narcotics is 911. Or, 9111. Or, 9 and as many 1s as it takes. Our van-ambulances open with keypads and they’re all set to 9111111. Seven digits, like a phone number, and you’re in, with the candy-pink backboards, the curlicued oxygen tubes, the cold, textured metal floors. Three sizes of foam c-spine collars. Enough lidocaine to numb a horse. The ambulances have military grade GPS, though, so they’re not worth stealing. Dispatch always has the coordinates. They even know what parking spot you’re in.
