Hey there, I have an XP 3.0 I take to work (EMS / ambulance) and my boss has been inspired to buy an ebike for an event response vehicle. We're considering acquiring a towable stretcher for it as well. Does anyone have an opinion on the XPedition's durability / towing performance / overall? Maybe alternatives for this purpose instead? Thanks in advance!

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The garage door shut with a groan behind us, closing us in the gloom of the single bulb hanging over the car.
Mother took a drag off her cigarette and sighed as she exhaled, the smoke filled the cabin of the Ford and stung my eyes.
“You really disappointed me today, Julianne," she tapped her cigarette in the ashtray below the dash, "you embarrassed me in front of the other mothers at the Ice Cream Social, shoveling down seconds and thirds like a pig. I thought I raised you better than that.”
She took another drag, daintily holding the cigarette between her perfectly manicured fingers.
“I'm going to have to tell your brother about this," she continued, “he'll have to come up with a punishment fit for a pig."
I felt my stomach drop. My kid brother, Thomas, was only six, but could be exceptionally cruel. Mother seemed to encourage him and was deferring to him more and more frequently for how the house was run, especially concerning my upbringing.
"Mother, please, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to embarrass you. I'm sorry I was a pig and ate so much ice cream. I promise I won't do it again, I'll never eat any ice cream again," I was pleading with stone, unyielding.
“Hush your mouth. Go to your room and wait for Thomas," she put out the cigarette and got out of the car, I had no choice but to follow.
It felt like walking to the gallows as I stepped inside the house and headed towards the stairs to go to my room. Thomas had grown fond recently of physical punishment, he obviously delighted in Mother whipping me with a belt or, recently, Mother had allowed him to start beating me with a wooden spoon. He would squeal and giggle like a normal child watching bubbles in the wind while I screamed. I was dreading whatever was going to happen tonight, I chastised myself for eating that ice cream, I should have known she would show up. My sins were always laid bare.
Down the hall, I could hear Thomas watching television in the den. I only got to watch TV for half an hour on Saturday morning and new episodes of Happy Days with Mother and Thomas. Thomas got to watch all the TV he wanted. He could listen to the radio and turntable as much as he wanted, as loud as he wanted. Thomas had an entire room just for his toys.
I entered my bedroom, it was a space I occupied, but it didn't feel like mine. Mother kept it spartan, white walls and white bedspread. A crucifix over the bed and a painting of Jesus over the door. I had my desk and chair and a dresser with some of the porcelain dolls Daddy gave me before he died that Mother let me keep. That was it.
I placed my book bag down and sat on my bed, waiting for Thomas. It was a while, sitting there with nothing but my own thoughts and staring at the open door. I felt humiliated, I was almost thirteen and my entire life was dictated by my brother. Mother kept the house in constant lockdown to keep Thomas a secret. No outsiders were allowed in. I couldn't have friends because she was afraid I would mention him or sneak a friend in to gawk at my brother and tease him for being different.
I would never make fun of him, I was terrified of him. Terrified of what he was and what he was becoming.
Eventually I heard his heavy footsteps coming up the stairs and I felt my heart start beating faster and my palms began to sweat. I kneaded my skirt in my hands, trying to calm myself and dry my palms. His slow arrhythmic footsteps came down the hall and I watched him as he entered the room.
I couldn't help but internally recoil at his appearance, even though I'd known him since he was born, I could never adjust to how unnatural he appeared. Thomas had been born at home and had never seen a doctor, but he was obviously unwell.
He was six years old and was barely over two feet tall, but very squat and wide. His skin was thick and gray, the whites of his beady eyes were yellow and his hair was wispy and white like an old man's, spreading out like a halo around his gargoyle face. A slight odor of decomposition hung about him, it reminded me faintly of garbage cans on a hot summer day. I hated when Mother made me help him with a bath, his skin felt like old brittle leather that flaked onto my clothes in gray flecks. His body was dense like concrete, I could barely lift him into the tub. Picking him up forced his hair into my face where that smell of rot would fill my nose, causing me to gag, silently, so as not to offend him and draw any ire from him or Mother.
Today, Thomas was wearing bib overalls with a red and green striped sweater underneath, reminding me of a grotesque doll.
“Mama says you acted like a piggy today at the ice cream social,” he spoke up to me in his unsettlingly high pitched, yet raspy voice, like a child that smoked as much as Mother, "you need to come down for dinner right now for your punishment for embarrassing Mama."
He turned and walked back down the stairs and I had no choice but to follow his toddling form downstairs to the dining table. We entered the kitchen and the table was placed with two settings. Mother was already seated and Thomas clambered up into his booster seat at his normal spot next to Mother. She took a drag off her cigarette and motioned vaguely to the floor without even looking at me.
Neatly situated on the linoleum was my dinner, not on a plate, but directly on the floor. A pork chop, scoop of mashed potatoes, and a small pile of peas. No utensils, either.
Thomas giggled with glee upon seeing my face.
“You have Mama's permission now to eat like a piggy, now. No hands! Piggies just use their face!” He stood up in his chair and reached out for Mother’s ash tray and flung it out over my meal, peppering my dinner with cigarette ash and butts.
"Oops! Piggies don't mind trash though, do they, Mama?” he giggled and the sound filled me with rage.
"No, they don't,” Mother replied coolly while maneuvering her ashtray back in place and carefully putting out her cigarette before saying prayer.
As angry as I was, I got down on my hands and knees and did my best at eating what I could without using my hands. I knew if I refused, it would be far worse. The whole meal, Thomas made pig noises and would reach down and poke me with his fork, making comments about what a fat piggy I was and how he wished he could roast and eat me. I doubted Mother would even object if he actually did kill me and eat me.
Gagging my way through another bite of ashy pork chop, I felt a warm splat over my head and heard Thomas giggling. I reached up and felt he had dumped mashed potatoes into my hair.
Choking down tears, I asked Mother if I could clean the floor and bathe. She rolled her eyes and excused me to clear the table for them as well while she changed Thomas into his pajamas. Picking him up, she walked out of the room and Thomas stuck his putrid little purple tongue out at me before they made it out the kitchen door.
I silently cried while I cleared the table and washed the dinner dishes. Tears splashed down as I mopped up the mess from my food on the floor. I hated how awful Thomas was. I hated how they treated me. Ever since Daddy died and Thomas showed up, I was their punching bag. I missed Daddy so much.
Mother was kinder then, too. She was still severe, but Dad kept her tempered. After he died, there was a change that came over her. I was only six, so I didn't remember her too much from before, but I did remember her gushing on and on when she was pregnant with Thomas. How the baby was a gift from Our Heavenly Father, that it was going to complete our broken family.
My sixth birthday happened right after Daddy died and I remember sitting on the patio crying while the house was full of people after the funeral, normally he would have gotten me a new doll and a chocolate bar, instead I was forgotten. No doll. No chocolate. Just funeral potatoes and a house full of cigarette smoke from the adults.
Nobody remembered. The closest thing I got was my dad's sister, Aunt Judy, sitting next to me on the patio step for a few minutes of comfortable silence before giving my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. I don't think she knew her brother was memorialized on my birthday. Next year, Thomas was born the day before my birthday, so it was completely eclipsed as Mother had just birthed her new love into the world…
I stopped mid mop as a lightbulb finally went off. I had never put much thought into the dates before.
Thomas was born a full year after Daddy died. He couldn't be his dad. Who was Thomas’ actual father?
Washing mashed potatoes out of my hair that evening, I ran over and over the timeline. No matter how I parsed it out, Thomas was only my half brother. Going to bed that night, I kept myself awake, going over and over again to make sure. I couldn't remember any men being around at that time, but that didn't mean much. Adults can easily hide things from children. Tension began throbbing through my head and I felt queasy. Mother had always known all of my secrets, able to sniff them out like a bloodhound out or using Thomas to spy. Now I had one of Mother's secrets and I didn't know what to do with it.
First I wanted to confirm it, but it would mean snooping, which was difficult in a house that was rarely left empty. I would have to try finding Mother's calendar book or journal to see if she mentioned any dates or men.
But when could I attempt such a daring maneuver? Thomas hardly left the house. As proud as Mother was of him, she was very cognizant and protective of his differences and didn't want to draw attention to herself or Thomas like that. Mother herself had few social engagements throughout the week and mostly stayed home to watch her golden child.
I finally decided I would take the risk and fake sick on Tuesday, grocery day, so I could stay home from school while she went shopping. All Thomas did all day was watch TV downstairs, so that should give me about an hour to look through her room for clues. I decided to tuck my head down, try to behave as best as I could to avoid their wrath, and wait for Tuesday.
That weekend limped along agonizingly slow. Thomas was in a fine mood and was constantly seeking out a reason to poke me, punch me, slap me… he'd laugh while calling me a piggy with his off-putting wide mouth. I tried to mostly stay in my room and it seemed like neither of them cared.
School on Monday was a relief, but my anxiety ramped up. The consequences would be dire if Mother caught on that I was faking sick to stay home. I didn't even want to imagine how off the leash she'd let my half-brother become in his punishment for that level of insubordination.
I stayed up all night, my stomach was in knots, but I was committed to my plan. Throughout the night, I screamed as hard as I could into my pillow. Screamed until my throat was raw and I could barely talk. It felt cathartic in a way. When it was close to school time, I put on my heaviest flannel pajamas and began doing jumping jacks until my face was flushed and my scalp was soaked with sweat.
Looking in the bathroom mirror before heading down to talk to Mother, I thought I looked pretty convincing, my skin was flushed and sweaty, my eyes had circles under them from lack of sleep, and my voice croaked like a frog.
Heading downstairs, Mother was already feeding Thomas breakfast. I hesitantly stepped into the kitchen and stood there awkwardly for a second, pawing with my pajamas to keep my nerves steady until she noticed my presence and looked up.
“Why aren't you dressed, Julianne?"
"I don't feel well. My throat hurts and my tummy hurts.” My voice graveled out more than I was expecting, I really had hurt my throat.
She strode over to me and placed a cool hand on my sweaty brow.
"You do feel warm. Take an aspirin from the medicine cabinet and go lay back down. I'll check on you later," with that she turned back and walked over to Thomas, who was frozen in place, glaring at me over a forkful of scrambled eggs. The sharp glint of malice in his beady eyes made me shiver before I shuffled out of the kitchen.
I laid in bed, trying my best to look miserable until I eventually heard the faint sound of the television playing in the den as Thomas settled in for his normal daytime routine and the garage door opened as Mother headed to the grocery store. I bounded out of bed and watched the car back out of our driveway and head up the street.
My heart began to pound as I tiptoed down the hall to Mother's bedroom, a place I rarely even caught a glimpse of, let alone entered. I very slowly opened the door, taking great care to not make any noise to alert Thomas downstairs that I was out of bed.
Creeping into the butter yellow room, I could feel my heartbeat pounding in my skull, this was the naughtiest thing I had ever done by far. I stepped onto the rug to help disguise my footsteps and slowly made my way past the brass bed and towards her desk. My hands shook as I opened the top drawer, I pawed through rapidly and found nothing. I checked the next drawer down and again found nothing of interest, just stationary and envelopes.
Finally, the bottom drawer was what I was looking for, a stack of journals from the past decade. I flipped through, trying to find entries relevant to when Daddy died and who Mother slept with afterwards.
I've never fully recovered from what I read.
July 6, 1968
Edgar died today. Car accident. I cannot believe this is real. My light, my life, my anchor... Dr. Benson gave me a sedative at the hospital and I feel so tired. So very, very tired. Why has my Lord forsaken me so?
July 9, 1968
I feel like I am in a very bad dream, I feel numb and disconnected. All the consolation and pity from everyone makes me feel sick. After the memorial, it took everything in me to not break dishes and to scream at everyone to get out of my house. Julianne was moping about crying and I wanted to throw her out, too.
If I hadn't seen my dear Edgar's body in the hospital and held his urn in my own hands, I wouldn't believe he was really gone. I still don't entirely believe it.
I have prayed to God every night asking him to show me why he took my husband from me and I have gotten no answer.
I skimmed over the next few months, as it was more or less similar sentiments repeated night after night. I finally got to an entry that caught my eye.
September 17, 1968
My battle with my faith has been fraught the past few months, but Hallelujah! I feel I can see the Lord again in all his glory and might, for he has given me a way to reconnect to my Edgar!
I was thinking about the night Julianne was born, right in this very home, it was a difficult birth and she struggled to breathe at first. Ingrid, my midwife, made a comment to me that if the baby had failed to wake up on her own, that Ingrid had ways to make sure she would have made it.
I remember asking if it was a medical methodology and she made it clear to me that in certain circumstances, it was a mystical property she used to bring the air of life into a struggling baby's lungs. She gently alluded to being a practicing member of the dark arts. At the time, I felt quite scandalized to have someone like that in my God fearing home. Now I see her as the answer to my prayers! My angel!
On a whim, I called her and asked if she still practiced such techniques. She hesitantly confirmed that she did. I asked, if she could turn breath into the lungs of a child without, could she turn breath into a child that did not exist? Could she magick into existence another child of my beloved Edgar? She told me she had to do some research and she'd be back in touch.
Ingrid just called back after a few hours and said there was a spell she found, but it was dangerous and might have unpleasant results. I said, yes, of course! I trust my Lord and I believe he sent this woman of blessed magick to me for this purpose.
She says we will have to do it soon, in a few days during the new moon. She has a potion to brew, but it is happening! Praise God!
September 23, 1968
The ceremony was last night, and Ingrid believes it was a success, but we will have to wait. It did not take long, only an hour or two. Ingrid lit my bedroom with many beeswax candles and she had me drink a thick and bitter tea that caused me to become quite relaxed and foggy.
From my inner thigh, she cut me and collected my blood in a chalice, with which she mixed quite a lot of Edgar's ashes and other ingredients which I could not glean from my supine position and groggy wits. Ingrid began to chant, calling upon a higher power, as I pleaded with my Lord to let this work. To give me any piece of my Edgar back. She came to the bed and worked the paste between my legs into my womanly chamber, which was very uncomfortable, but manageable with the numbing effects of the tea.
She continued to sit with me and chant, her hand placed over my womb, until she decided at which time it was complete. She left and I fell into a deep sleep. When I woke up this morning, I felt quite uncomfortable, my body ached and when I used the restroom, a yellow fluid like pus poured out of me, but no sign of any ashes or blood, which gives me hope it was absorbed into my womb.
November 3, 1968
Praise be to our Lord, Ingrid just confirmed for me that I am with child, I had been hoping so, I had not gotten my cycle in October, but I wasn't sure if that was because of the discharge like pus that was still coming. She told me that was common with this spell and a side effect that would stop after the baby came.
I feel like I am floating on air, for the first time since Edgar left, I feel-
I suddenly became very aware of the feeling of eyes on the back of my head. I had become too engrossed in what was written before me and I had lost track of my surroundings. Very slowly, I turned around and my heart began pounding again as I saw Thomas standing in the doorway holding his wooden spoon in one hand. How had I not heard him?
He pointed at me with his empty hand and screamed, just a pure guttural screech from somewhere deep inside his disgusting little body. He charged at me from across the room, his horrible feet thumping solidly along the rug. He began beating my legs ruthlessly with the spoon, causing my legs to buckle. I crashed down to my knees in front of him, and he began lashing at my face, pulling my hair with one hand while wailing away at my head with the spoon.
I had dropped the journal I was holding and was desperately trying to get a hand on the spoon or push him away. All I could hear was him screaming. My arms flailed and I reached around on Mother's desk and grabbed onto the first thing I found and sank it into Thomas’ neck.
The end of Mother's gold letter opener protruded under his jaw. He went silent and he looked at me with utter shock. He dropped the spoon and collapsed on the ground, clutching at his neck as his thick black blood oozed out from his wound, letting out a stupendous odor of rot that filled the room. He didn't really say anything or make any noise. He just twitched for a moment and I saw his eyes glaze over.
In shock, I stood over his little body for a moment and I watched as he seemed to mummify in just a few minutes, like an ash person from Pompeii dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt. Even his blood that looked like shiny oil a second ago became like potting soil on Mother's rug. Reaching out to touch his hand, it crumbled away like sand.
Panic ran through me like a rabbit caught in a snare. Not knowing what to do, I ran. I ran down the hall, changed my clothes, put an extra change of clothes in my backpack and the last doll Daddy had ever given me and I ran. Mother would absolutely never forgive me and I was genuinely afraid she would kill me in retaliation for taking her beloved Thomas away from her. Her precious gift from God. My feet flew over the pavement and took me away from that house.
I called my Aunt Judy from a payphone outside the five & dime, and told her Mother had kicked me out and asked if I could stay with her. She had always had a strained relationship with my mother and it didn't take much convincing that she had kicked out her “only” child. Only Mother, Ingrid, and I ever knew about Thomas.
She gave me a home and took care of me. She never beat me or humiliated me. Even with her love, I was far from okay. For years I would close my eyes and hear Thomas scream, then the sudden silence. I'd see him fumbling at his neck and turning to ash. But I would also remember all the ways he would hurt me and how bad he was becoming. I could never talk to anyone about it, especially not the silent relief I felt I refused to admit to myself. Over time, however, Thomas' screams became a whisper and his silence faded into dust in my mind.
I moved on with my life. I went to college and became a photojournalist, getting to travel the world and watch history unfold. By choice, I never married, but was quite blessed with many beautiful friendships for companionship over the decades. I found balance in my life and a sense of happiness, if not peace. I never could quite stomach mashed potatoes again, though, they always taste ashy to me.
Mother never made any attempts to reach out to me or find me, at least that I'm aware of. Ten years ago, I was contacted by a hospital and they said my mother had been admitted earlier after falling and was about to pass, so she must have kept some tabs on me to know my phone number for her emergency contacts. Apparently she had collapsed in the driveway and a neighbor called an ambulance. I got there and her only words to me were, “take care of him," as she placed a locket in my hand. I opened the locket, Jesus was on one side, Thomas on the other. I didn't say anything to her, just held her frail old hand with nicotine stained nails until she passed in the night. My mother was gone and I felt nothing except a vague sense of relief.
When I got to her house, it was like a time capsule. Other than a newer television, it was just like it was when I'd fled so many years ago. The smell of tobacco smoke hung like incense in the air. It felt oppressive, like a tomb.
I wandered the house in a bit of a daze. The one place I didn't want to go was upstairs. I didn't want to see my old room, or Thomas' room, or Mother's. Putting it off, I went to fix myself some supper, realizing I hadn't eaten in almost a day. I took a pause when I opened the fridge and saw a baby bottle on a shelf. Silently praying she had been babysitting for a neighbor, I fixed myself some toast with sardines and sat eating in the den watching TV. It had been almost forty years and it still felt rebellious not eating at the table and watching TV without permission.
My eyes grew heavy and I finally mustered up the gumption to head upstairs to go to bed. The stairs creaked in a familiar way under my feet and I was taken back to the feeling of dread hearing either Mother or Thomas climbing up. My old room was at the top of the stairs, I saw the door was nailed shut and had rambling quotes about Judas copied from the Bible in my mother's handwriting taped to the door. I sighed gently and turned from the door to head down the hallway, deciding Mother's room was probably the best place to sleep.
I passed by Thomas’ toy room and I heard a murmur from the room. I stopped, curiosity got the best of me and I entered. In Thomas' old toy room was a crib with joyful clown sheets. Dread swelled up inside me as I heard more murmurs and saw the sheets move. Approaching slowly, I peaked under the sheet and gasped.
Tucked inside was what looked like a baby gargoyle, gray and papery looking. Pus leaked out of its milky, bulbous eyes. I pulled back the blanket and saw it had no legs and its arms bent back, like wings on a bird. It was wearing just a cloth diaper, overflowing with tarry looking stool that took my breath away with its pungency, it smelled like Thomas’ blood, but somehow worse. My heart broke for this poor creature, Lord only knows how many years it has been in this crib suffering from its unholy existence.
So this is who Mother had wanted me to take care of…
Not knowing what else to do, I gently scooped him up. Like Thomas, he was shockingly heavy for how small his body was. Placing him on the changing table, I cleaned him and rewrapped his bottom in a clean diaper cloth. It was difficult, he fussed tremendously, crying and flopping around as much as his flipper-like arms would allow. I tried wiping off his oozing eyes and he snapped his mouth, which I saw was full of disturbingly square yellow teeth, trying to bite me. I carried him to the kitchen and rocked him while I heated up his bottle and he became furious with me, almost barking like a dog when my hand would get near his face.
He settled a bit as he fed, but he would still sometimes suddenly spit out the bottle and attempt to bite me. I laid him back in his crib, this abomination in a clown sheet, and I walked down the hall to Mother's room letting out a long sigh.
Combing through my mother's journals in the early hours of the morning, it looked like she tried the ceremony again shortly after Thomas died, but she either lacked Ingrid’s help or didn't have enough of my father's ashes left. Something went terribly wrong. She was vaguer than she had been about Thomas’ conception, but I suspect she had used some of Thomas' remains. The resulting birth she named Isaac.
Mother's journals told a sad tale of her and Isaac's suffering. She never mentioned me, but lamented the loss of Thomas and Dad relentlessly. She was hyper protective of Isaac, as that was all she had left. If her world had been small before, it became microscopic after he entered her life, requiring nearly constant care. According to Mother, he was blind and colicky, sometimes going years at a time without sleeping through the night. She had breast fed him for years, but she had to stop after he grew teeth and began biting her intentionally and feeding on her blood.
I spent a lot of time over the next few days pondering what to do. I had to get her estate in order, she had left me the house, in an obvious attempt to get me to continue caretaking for Isaac, but I didn't want it. I had my own cozy home an hour away from here, filled with happy memories and my possessions acquired traveling the world. Mother's home had a heavy energy I couldn't shake. Her and Thomas were both gone, but the memories of the scoldings and beatings hung in every corner, like cobwebs that would never sweep away.
So, I fed Isaac and kept him clean and tried to keep him company, although he seemed to hate me passionately. I took care of him, all the while thinking about what I was going to do. After a week, I felt resolute in what had to be done.
Gathering up all of Mother's journals in a tote, I made my way to Isaac and picked him up and carried everything to the living room.
The ancient logs in the fireplace meant for display ignited instantly. One by one, I fed the journals into the fire, burning away years of my mother's consuming sorrow. Isaac fussed and moaned next to me the entire time. When the last pages shimmered away into lacy ash, I took a throw pillow off the couch and gently cradled Isaac in my other arm. It didn't take long before he stopped struggling and I felt his little body relax after decades of suffering.
I gently wrapped up a bundle in a clown sheet and placed it in the fire. It burned furiously, like the paper in my mother's journals, and was soon gone. Nothing but ashes and embers.
“Don't worry, Mother,” I said purely for my own sake, "I took care of Isaac for you."
And finally, I felt at peace.

The European air ambulance services market is anticipated to grow at a substantial CAGR of 6.8% during the forecast period. This European Air Ambulance Services Market research report focuses more on a number of distinctive as well as foremost market sectors. It further focuses market segmentation. Industry-specific interviews are carried out with market players to foresee future business growth. Various facets of the industry are also depicted here under each industry sector. Future development visions and a wide range of subjects are covered in this European Air Ambulance Services Market study report. All this crucial data greatly assists key players to establish their presence in the competitive market. It verifies and revalidates the knowledge provided in this global Market report. It also allows several organizations to learn more about a range of opportunities already available in the market and makes aware to firms about upcoming opportunities too. It ensures several firms to attain a long-standing business success by capturing all of the latest updates about market growth. Most important participants are able to employ such report as a great resource to attain a competitive advantage over the cut-throat market.
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The major companies serving the European air ambulance services market include Air Rescuers, Freedom Air Charters, Babcock Scandinavian Air Ambulance, European Air Ambulance Services, IAS Medical, Ltd., Luxembourg Air Ambulance SA, REVA, Inc., and others. The market players are considerably contributing to the market growth by the adoption of various strategies including mergers & acquisitions, collaborations, funding, and new product launches, to stay competitive in the market. For instance, in June 2021, Fox Flight Air Ambulance had announced that they are entering the European market with Learjet 45XR, acquired from Luxembourg Air Rescue.
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· Market Coverage
· Market number available for – 2024-2031
· Base year- 2024
· Forecast period- 2024-2031
· Segment Covered- By Source, By Product Type, By Applications
· Competitive Landscape- Archer Daniels Midland Co., Ingredion Inc., Kerry Group Plc, Cargill
· Inc., and others
European Air Ambulance Services Market Report Segment
By Type
​

• Rotary-wing
• Fixed-wing

By Service Operator
​

• Hospital-based
• Independent
• Government

By Application
​

• Inter-facility
• Rescue Helicopter
• Organ Transplant Logistics

The Report Covers
​

• Comprehensive research methodology of the European air ambulance services market.
• This report also includes a detailed and extensive market overview with key analyst insights.
• An exhaustive analysis of macro and micro factors influencing the market guided by key recommendations.
• Analysis of regional regulations and other government policies impacting the European air ambulance services market.
• Insights about market determinants that are stimulating the European air ambulance services market.
• Detailed and extensive market segments with the regional distribution of forecasted revenues.
• Extensive profiles and recent developments of market players.

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I was the only child. Born in the mid 90s. My father was a narcissist for sure. Perhaps also a Psychopath, perhaps bipolar or something else entirely. I don't know for sure. I do know my experience with him. It varied wildly from day to day. Some days he would want to play catch and take me out for an ice cream, be generally agreeable and in a good mood, crack jokes. Contrast that to the next day, he'd come home angry. After enough time I could tell if he was angry before he entered the house by the gate of his walk. A bigger fella, 300+ lbs, my father would stomp and throw his weight around when he was angry. He loved to stomp around my childhood cat. Scared the shit out of my cat. Maybe he felt more powerful than the cat. Maybe he just liked seeing the cat scurry in panic. Every time that man gave my cat emotional distress, it gave me distress and I held more and more contempt for the man's actions as I grew older. But that cat and I would form a strong connection, that cat would sleep with me every night. I loved that cat because it showed me more love and affection than any human ever had.
I remember one night, I must've been four or five years old, hearing my parents screaming at each other. Hearing them scream didn't scare me, as it was a normal occurrence and I was so desensitized and had no idea that my environment was not "normal". I wasn't struck with fear until things escalated from verbal to physical. I heard my father storm into his office and start breaking things. I see my mother screaming at him from across the hallway and suddenly out from the office door flies an entire model car display, with several model cars. The display smashes against the wall next to my mother's head, narrowly missing her, glass shatters, flying everywhere, littering the hallway. I didn't know what to do other than pull my Spiderman blanket over my head and hope I'd remain safe by staying unseen. I just laid there and listened to them hurl swears and insults for what felt like an eternity.
I remember another night, where I found my mother sitting on the bathtub, crying hysterically, holding a revolver, saying to herself, "I'm gonna kill him" over and over. I said, "Why don't we just go Mama?" she hugged me and cried and said, "It's not that simple."
Turns out it wasn't that simple. My father was willing to endanger us all to get his way. I remember being in the car, my father driving, my mother in the passenger seat, and I'm in the back. They were arguing about something, I don't even remember what. My father would pick a fight over anything if he was in the mood for confrontation. For example, I remember him starting a fight over there being two coffee filters in the coffee machine before. So anyway, they are arguing in the car, the car is travelling approximately 45mph. In order to ensure compliance from my mother, and get her to cave to him, he starts whipping the wheel left and right, we start to go off in the ditch as he overcorrects to whip the car the other way. We're basically dangerously Saudi drifting because he's implying he's willing to kill his wife, his child and himself in order to get his way.
Fast forward a few years, I've got a bicycle I want to take around the neighborhood (the neighborhood being an oval) but my controlling father won't let me just ride the entire neighborhood in one big circle, I've got to make a dangerously sharp U-turn in order to not leave the sight of the front of the house. Turns out this rule was not for my safety at all, as my father was not keeping a watchful eye on me, but instead trying to make unwanted sexual advances on my mother. Guess what? I turned too sharp making one of those U-turns and face planted my jaw into the asphalt. Broke all my teeth out of my head(my last baby teeth had just fallen out, I had broken my newly acquired adult set of teeth). I run back to the house, screaming in pain, only to be met by a locked door. I pounded on that door for over a minute before they opened it. I later found out this was because my father was trying to get some hankey pankey. I can't chew on the right side of my mouth and have a smile I despise and hide from everyone and I 100% blame my father.
To add insult to injury, my father had plans for us all to drive two hours and go camping with HIS friends that day. I of course was not given any consideration or priority having just broken my face, and we proceeded to go camping regardless of my physical state or personal feelings. Camping wasn't fun. I was told to quit acting like a baby as I cried trying to eat a hamburger with my broken bleeding teeth. I can still see the bloody tooth marks on that hamburger bun. Of course my father was putting back beers this whole time. I don't know how many he drank that night I just know it was a lot. We left his friends to head back to our Lodge my father had rented. I go inside and piss, my father goes in the bathroom immediately after me, pisses, then storms out of the bathroom accusing me of pissing on the toilet seat. I calmly assure him I did not piss on the seat. He then says, "You calling me a liar?"
I stand my ground and reply with, "You're drunk you probably pissed on the seat and don't even realize it."
Next thing I know I'm on the ground in a ball trying to protect my head as my father is not spanking me on the ass with an open palm, but punching me with full force with a balled up fist. That was the first time I remember my mother stepping in. She pulled him off of me.
Fast forward to 2017, I'm an adult, working a job, still living with parents because the economy sucks. Mom has been complaining she doesn't feel right and my father was rather dismissive of her. One morning she tries to go into cardiac arrest, she pops and extra beta blocker, the doctor said later prob saved her life. My father was acting super weird while we were waiting for the ambulance. Trying to keep me away from my mother. Insisting I go to work instead of the hospital. My gut told me something was off. I told work I was going to the hospital with my mother. They understood. Turns out my mom has a widowmaker blockage, requiring a double-bypass. At this point in my life I had turned to alcohol to dull the stress of living with my father, and the stress of potentially losing my mother, I got very drunk the night before her operation. I woke up late the morning of her operation. So late I didn't get to see her before she went under. I worried if I had just drank away the last opportunity I had to see my mother alive.
Several hours go by, I finally see them wheel my mother out on the hospital bed, she's blueish-gray. Clinically dead before my eyes. They briskly take her away to another room and within a few minutes, tell me to come say hi. I was so relieved to talk my mother. I genuinely thought I had lost her. But the battle was not over. The biggest mistake that doctor made was telling my father to keep my mother's stress levels down following the operation. Guess what my father did? He ramped up his abusive yelling, because he was the beneficiary of a $800,000 policy and I could see he was pissed that my mother survived Open Heart. I was beginning to wonder if he had poisoned her.
It was only two days after the operation that we had to go back to the hospital because my father threw the television remote at my chair-bound recovering mother after screaming about how hard this whole situation was for him, complaining when she'd ask him to get her a water bottle. He also threw a tantrum and shoved me and my grandmother that day. My only regret is not shooting him that day because I'm sure in my State it would've been justified. But I didn't because I didn't want to send my mom into cardiac arrest from excess stress. So I make a decision, knowing my father has malicious intent, I decide its best for me to quit my job and take full responsibility of taking care of my mother since I'm sure I can't trust my father to do that. I was right to do that.
Fast forward a year, I've successfully helped my mother recover, driven her to all her physical therapy sessions, helped her bathe and poop and everything in between when she didn't have the energy, but now she's back to a solid 80% of what she was before the operation. She can drive herself again, just got a certified preowned BMW, but funny thing about that BMW. After my mom got a red one my dad felt the need to go out and get a white one, the same exact model. Then one day my mom comes home with one bolt barely holding on the rear driver-side tire. Four of the bolts are just gone. One just barely keeping that tire on there. I immediately put two and two together. My father is trying to get the life insurance money out of my mother, and my mother is too naive and ignorant to see it. I mean I know I didn't loosen the bolt. Was it the elderly widow next door? Was it the Doctor with the autistic kid across the street? Or was it my father, the primary beneficiary? I know, but I can't prove it in court. And there lies the problem. We left. Went no contact seven years ago. He filed for divorce, but he still stalks my mom. He hires people to stalk her. All I know to do is stay armed and ready.
I have neighbors who fight all the time. I hear them scream at each other. Sometimes it sends me into a flashback. PTSD can be a real bitch.
Why does a cat show me more love than my own species? Why do we exploit good people rather than cherish them? Why can't I turn off the nightmare? Why can't I feel safe and secure? Why can't I just relax? I'm so tired.

I remember visiting my grandparent's place in the Appalachian mountains as a kid. As we approached the house, I was awash with memories of my childhood visits. My grandparents had a sprawling property boasting a few acres of land, meaning the nearest neighbor was too far away to visit on foot. Despite the distance, the isolation of their property only added to its charm. I vividly recall sitting on the front porch with my grandpa, nestled on his lap, as we watched the sun slowly dip below the horizon. The sky would be painted with a breathtaking array of colors, ranging from deep oranges to soft pinks and everything in between. As I sat there, soaking up the moment's beauty, I couldn't help but feel a sense of peace and tranquility wash over me. These memories are forever etched in my mind, and I hold them dear.
My grandparents had passed away a few months before this, and that was around the same time I dropped out of college. I was a typical gifted high school student but got burned out fast in college. I was only 21 and could still finish my degree, but my parents insisted I stay at my grandparents' house for a while as some sort of punishment. They needed someone to watch the place until they decided what to do with it, and they were pissed about me leaving college, so they figured putting me up here with no transportation would make for a good punishment.
"What if I run out of groceries?" I asked, trying to find a way out of the punishment.
"We will have someone deliver your groceries each week." My Mom said as she kept her eyes on the road with no expression. I could tell that she was still livid.
I sighed and relaxed my shoulders in defeat as I stared out of the window with my head resting on the window. The trees were green blurs on each side of the road, moving too fast to ultimately make out what you're seeing.
As we approach a sharp turn, we slow down just enough to make out a prominent figure hiding deep in the tree's darkness. I try to keep my eyes on it, but the trees are blurry from the speed again after the turn.
Suddenly, another memory enters my head. I remember seeing that figure in the trees every time we came up here to visit. It was just a shadowy figure hiding in the darkness. I was too young to understand what it meant. Now, as I get older, I start to question its presence.
The car stops outside the house, and I look at the trees before leaving. My Mom grabs my suitcase, taking it out of the trunk. "Come on, you can go inside and unpack." She says, her tone still cold. I follow her to the front door, trying not to trip on the creaky wooden stairs.
The inside of the house is exactly how I remember it from my childhood visits. The same old furniture, the same knickknacks on the shelves, the same smell of lavender and wood polish. But there's something else, too. An unsettling feeling in the air, like something isn't quite right. I shrugged it off, telling myself it was just my imagination or maybe the feeling of being in the house of someone no longer alive.
I unpacked my suitcase and put my clothes in the same dresser I had used when I was younger. My room is right next to the one my grandparents used to share, and I can hear every creak and groan from the old floorboards as if they were next to me. I lie on the bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to ignore the strange sensation of being watched. I turn my head to look at the room but see nothing.
Suddenly, my Mom enters the room, "Alright, like I said, you'll get groceries every week. You should be fine with what we stocked you up with now."
I sigh, "Thanks, Mom."
She sits down next to me on the bed, "Kev, I know this is going to suck for you, but if you're not in school, at least you could help us out here. It's only for a few months, and then you can come back, and we will talk about re-enrolling." She kissed me on the forehead, told me she loved me, and left. Suddenly, I was here alone in a dead house.
I explore the house to keep my mind off the creepy feeling that something isn't quite right. I wander through the living room, noticing how the furniture has been rearranged since I was last here. The once cozy spot where my grandma would knit and my grandpa would read the paper now feels cold and unused. I enter the kitchen, where the familiar smell of lavender and wood polish greets me. The groceries are neatly stacked on the counter, just like my Mom said they would be.
As I stood near the window above the kitchen sink, I noticed that the sun was setting, causing the room to gradually become darker with each passing minute. The fading light cast a warm and comforting glow on the floor, illuminating the dust particles that seemed to dance in the air. I took a deep breath, trying to shake off the uneasy feeling gnawing at me since I entered the house. Despite the beautiful view outside, this house felt wrong. It was like some hidden secret lurking out of sight, waiting to be discovered.
I tried to keep my mind occupied, so I turned the TV on and watched an episode of SpongeBob. That was the show I would always watch when I came over since my parents didn't have cable. The familiar theme song played, and the cartoon characters danced across the screen. But even though the show was the same, something felt off. There was tension in the air as if someone were watching me. I glanced around the room, but everything looked the same as it always had.
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see a window, and suddenly, something darts out of the corner of the curtain. I whip my head around, but whatever it was, it's gone. My heart races as I try to calm myself down. I take a deep breath and tell myself it was just my imagination or maybe a stray animal. But that feeling in the pit of my stomach won't go away.
I lean against the couch, trying to focus on the TV again. SpongeBob is still dancing across the screen, but I can't shake the feeling that someone or something is watching me. My skin crawls, and I can't help but glance around the room again. The kitchen is still neat and organized, but now it feels claustrophobic.
I get up to look for the key to the liquor cabinet, hoping it will be stocked by Gramps before he passes. I find it in its usual spot behind the old family photo and open the cabinet. There are rows upon rows of bottles, all neatly arranged and labeled. My heart races with anticipation as I reach for a bottle of scotch and pour myself a shot.
Taking a sip, I close my eyes and savor the warmth that spreads through my chest. It feels good, almost comforting, like Gramps' familiar embrace. I pour another shot and sit at the kitchen table, lost in thought.
I hear a creak from upstairs, like someone walking across the floor. I glance up at the ceiling, heart racing, but it's just the old house settling. Or maybe it's just my imagination again. The television drones on in the background, but I barely register it anymore.
After a few more drinks, my vision blurred, and my eyelids heavy. I stumbled to my room, my steps unsteady and my mind foggy. As I collapsed onto the comforter, the room spun around me. Suddenly, I caught a glimpse of a creature darting across the ceiling. But I was too inebriated to care; I closed my eyes and drifted into a deep sleep.

The next thing I knew, I woke up with my face pressed against the cold, hard tiles of the bathroom floor. I couldn't remember how I got there, but the evidence painted a clear picture. There was a trail of vomit leading from my bed to the toilet, and I was snuggled up against it as if it were my only friend. The room was still spinning, and my head was pounding with the after-effects of a wild night.
I have never felt this bad in my life. I honestly thought I was dying, so I called my Mom, who asked if I had eaten or drunk something terrible. I heard laughing after telling her how many scotch glasses I had. "Honey, you have a hangover. Just take it easy and stay away from Grandpa's scotch." She said, chuckling before ending the conversation.
My head ached, my stomach turned, my forehead was sweaty, and my vision was sensitive to even my phone on minimum brightness. I had never felt so miserable, so I tried to sleep it off. I would sleep for about 45 minutes before waking up to my body, not knowing what side it would come out of.
That night, after a long and exhausting day, I finally managed to muster the energy to get out of bed and make breakfast for dinner. As I slowly walked downstairs, hoping to find some comfort in a warm meal, I couldn't help but notice that the living room was in complete disarray. The couch cushions were flipped over, and the coffee table was on its side. My heart started racing, and I felt a sudden dread wash over me. I hadn't done that, at least not that I remembered. As I tiptoed towards the kitchen, trying to be as quiet as possible, I heard a sudden bump coming from inside. I froze, trying to hear anything else, but the silence was deafening. My imagination ran wild, and I couldn't help but think someone was here with me. As I slowly entered the kitchen, my heart pounding, I found nothing unusual. But the unease lingered, and I couldn't shake the feeling that I was not alone.
I eat my meager dinner, trying not to think about the strange events that had been happening. As I clean up the dishes, I catch a glimpse of movement out of the corner of my eye. I turn around, but there's nothing there. Just the empty living room. Grandpa had always told stories about the monsters in these mountains and how there were creatures that fed on fear and loneliness. And right now, I was feeling more alone than ever.
The Dogman, a creature that has always been a source of fascination and fear for many, is said to inhabit the dark and shadowy corners of the Appalachian Mountains. It is a terrifying and mysterious creature that stands at least seven feet tall with a lean and muscular build covered in dark, fur-covered skin. Its eyes are said to be glowing orbs of yellow, and they are known to pierce through the darkness with an otherworldly intensity that can make even the bravest of hearts quiver with fear.
The creature's head, which resembles a wolf's, is adorned with pointed ears and a long snout that reveals its razor-sharp teeth. Its arms end in long, clawed fingers capable of quickly rending flesh. Moreover, the Dogman is known to move with predatory grace, stalking its prey with silent footsteps and striking with deadly accuracy.
Despite its fearsome appearance, the Dogman possesses an uncanny intelligence that it uses to toy with its victims before delivering a final, deadly strike. Its howls echo through the mountains and are said to be chilling and terrifying, striking fear into the hearts of all who hear them. The Dogman, a creature that has always been a source of fascination and anxiety for many, is said to inhabit the dark and shadowy corners of the Appalachian Mountains. It is a terrifying and mysterious creature that stands at least seven feet tall with a lean and muscular build covered in dark, fur-covered skin. Its eyes are said to be glowing orbs of yellow, and they are known to pierce through the darkness with an otherworldly intensity that can make even the bravest of hearts quiver with fear.
The creature's head, which resembles a wolf's, is adorned with pointed ears and a long snout that reveals its razor-sharp teeth. Its arms end in long, clawed fingers capable of quickly rending flesh. Moreover, the Dogman is known to move with predatory grace, stalking its prey with silent footsteps and striking with deadly accuracy.
Despite its fearsome appearance, the Dogman possesses an uncanny intelligence that it uses to toy with its victims before delivering a final, deadly strike. Its howls echo through the mountains and are said to be chilling and terrifying, striking fear into the hearts of all who hear them.
I quickly shook this story off my mind as I tried calming myself down. It was just a story, after all. Throughout that night, I heard bumps and creaks all around me. I was finally able to fall asleep at 2am.
The next morning, I felt even worse than the day before. My body ached, and my head felt like it was in a vice. I dragged myself out of bed and made some coffee, hoping it would help. As I was about to drink it, I noticed a strange note on the counter. It was written in blood. "You're next," it said.
Shaking with fear, I quickly called the police. They told me to stay where I was and lock all the doors and windows. I did as they said, but I couldn't help but feel a sense of dread as I waited for them to arrive. Hours passed, and still no one came. The Dogman was toying with me, just like Grandpa had warned.
I gave up hope of the cops showing up when the sun began its descent, so I mustered the courage to peer out of the window again.
To my horror, the Dogman was still there, crouched low on the ground in front of the house. Its sleek and glossy fur absorbed what little light remained, giving it an otherworldly aura. Each hair stood on end, crackling with an eerie energy that sent shivers down my spine.
With its head thrown back, the Dogman released a haunting howl that reverberated through the mountains, causing the earth to tremble beneath my feet. The sound was primal, filled with a malevolent energy that seemed to seep into my bones.
As the creature continued to howl, its eyes locked onto mine, the glowing orbs burning with an intense, otherworldly light. It felt like the beast could see into my soul, peeling back the layers of my being with its gaze alone.
Its clawed fingers dug into the dirt, leaving deep trenches behind as it struggled to contain itself. The muscles beneath its fur rippled with a predatory grace, coiled and ready to strike at a moment's notice.
And then, in an instant, it was gone, disappearing into the shadows with a speed that left me reeling.
After making another frantic call to the authorities, I only held out a little hope they would arrive this time. Despite my pleas for help, I could sense the disbelief in their tone. Despite my best efforts, they weren't taking the situation as seriously as they should have been.
I could hear its heavy breathing through the house's windows, the hot, rank breath fogging the glass as it peered in at me. No matter where I went, I felt its gaze following me, trapping me in its malevolent stare.
I was frozen, unable to move or even scream, as the creature shifted slightly, revealing its muscular haunches and razor-sharp claws. Its fur bristled with anticipation as it slowly arched its back, preparing to pounce.
I managed to leap out of the way just in time, narrowly avoiding the full force of its claws. Despite my agility, I still felt a searing pain as its razor-sharp claws grazed my arm, leaving behind a deep, jagged scratch.
Warm blood dripped down my arm, splattering onto the hardwood floors as I staggered backward, clutching my wounded limb. The pain was excruciating, pulsing through my veins with every beat of my heart.
I knew I had to act fast. With trembling hands, I rushed to the bathroom to assess the damage. The wound wasn't deep, but it was deep enough to cause a considerable amount of bleeding.
Grimacing, I reached for the first aid kit, my hands shaking as I retrieved the necessary supplies. With a mixture of rubbing alcohol and peroxide, I cleaned the wound as best as I could, wincing as the antiseptic stung against my torn flesh.
Gauze in hand, I carefully wrapped my injured arm, trying to stem the flow of blood as best as I could. But despite my efforts, the pain continued to throb relentlessly, a constant reminder of the danger that lurked just outside the door.
Realizing I couldn't risk leaving the bathroom's safety, I fashioned a makeshift bed out of towels, but sleep remained elusive.
I spent the long hours of the night staring at the closed door, every creak and groan of the old house sending a jolt of fear coursing through my veins. Occasionally, I would hear the low, guttural growl from the crack beneath the door, a constant reminder of the danger lurking outside.
The Dogman was toying with me, and I knew it. It could easily break down the flimsy door and reach me if it wanted to. So why didn't it? The question gnawed at my mind, filling me with dread and uncertainty.
As the sun rose through the tiny window above the shower, casting a pale light into the room, I realized I hadn't heard anything outside the door for hours. The absence of the Dogman's menacing presence was a relief and a cause for concern.
I knew the creature didn't often show itself during the day; I had only ever seen it at night or sunset. With this assumption in mind, I resolved to find something to defend myself with until nightfall.
Tentatively, I went down the hall to my grandpa's study. The familiar room greeted me, filled with old books and knickknacks collected over the years.
Grandpa's desk stood in the center of the room, covered in papers and half-finished crossword puzzles, just as I remembered it. With a sense of urgency, I searched through the cluttered drawers, my hands trembling as I rifled through the contents.
Finally, my fingers closed around what I was looking for: his old journal. It was weathered and faded, but the pages were filled with neat handwriting detailing his encounters with the Dogman and the rituals he had used to keep it at bay.
Flipping through the yellowed pages, I found his entry about the Dogman. It detailed an ancient ritual to banish the creature, but the instructions were complicated and involved several items I had yet to see around the house.
According to Grandpa's journal, I needed various herbs that could be found growing around the house and water from the spring a couple of miles away. Determined to rid myself of the Dogman's torment, I gathered the necessary ingredients.
The trek to the spring was arduous, but I was relieved to be out of the oppressive atmosphere of the house. On my way back, I collected the water and most of the herbs, eager to return home and perform the ritual.
Back at the house, I searched more methodically, scouring every room and corner for the remaining herbs. The Dogman's presence loomed heavily over me as I moved through the familiar spaces, its growls, and scratches echoing through the walls and floors.
It seemed to know exactly where I was at all times, taunting me with its presence but never showing itself.
Finally, I found the last item on the list: a handful of sacred herbs that were supposed to be ground into a powder and sprinkled around the house's perimeter.
I gathered the herbs and returned to my grandfather's study, where I found a small grinder beside his desk. With careful hands, I ground the herbs into a fine powder, making sure not to spill any.
Heart pounding, I hurried back to the living room, ready to perform the ritual and rid myself of the Dogman's malevolent presence once and for all.
Determined, I opened the front door and stepped outside, the ground crunching beneath my feet as I moved around the house's perimeter.
Taking handfuls of the powdered herbs, I sprinkled them around the house's base, chanting the ancient words from my grandfather's journal as I did so. As I spoke the words, the air seemed to hum with energy, and I could feel the weight of centuries-old magic settling around me.
But as I finished the final word, I felt a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. Nothing had changed. I could still feel the Dogman's presence, its malevolent energy lingering like a thick fog.
Despair washed over me as I realized that the ritual had failed and I was still trapped in the creature's grasp.
Disheartened, I sat on the front porch steps, my back against the wooden frame. I didn't know what else to do. Maybe I should just call my Mom and hope that she believes me. I have a scratch on my arm, but I'm sure she would assume I got drunk again and fell or something.
I sat there noticing the sunset, realizing I'd spent the entire day doing this, only for it to not work, a wasted day.
I heard the familiar growl from behind me. The Dogman was back. I felt a shiver run down my spine as it approached, its wet nose brushing against my shoulder. It seemed to be studying me, its amber eyes unblinking.
"What do you want?" I asked, my voice shaking. The Dogman didn't respond but stood there as if waiting for something. After a few more moments of silence, I decided to try a different approach. "Look, I'm sorry if I did something to make you mad. I didn't mean any harm. If there's anything I can do to make it stop, just tell me."
The Dogman cocked its head to the side, studying me intently. Its eyes narrowed as if trying to understand what I'd just said. After silence, it finally responded in a deep, guttural growl.
Its growl made me jump and flinch, but it still stood there, staring.
I took a deep breath and tried again. "Look, I don't know what you want or why you're doing this. But if there's anything I can do to make it stop, just tell me. I don't want to hurt you. I just want to go home."
The Dogman stared at me for a long moment, its amber eyes unblinking. Then, slowly, it turned its head and looked behind me, out in the front yard. It growled again, more profound this time, as if in warning or frustration.
"What do you mean?" I asked, confusion washing over me. "What am I supposed to do?"
It lunged at me, and I fell into darkness before I could do anything.
When I woke up, I was surrounded by a medical team in the back of an ambulance, scrambling to help. Suddenly, I felt pain across my face. As I reached up to feel it, one of the EMTs swiped my hand and told me not to touch it. I could see flesh hanging into my eyesight from my forehead. Shocked, I must've passed out again.
By the time I was able to completely wake up, I was recovering from multiple surgeries. I felt my face and only felt the wrapping used when healing wounds. I also couldn't feel my left leg, so I removed the sheets to find nothing. My leg was gone.
The doctors and nurses came scrambling in when I screamed and sobbed, the pain of my missing leg and the realization of my forever-altered face crashing over me like a tidal wave.
After they calmed me down, my Mom burst into the room, tears streaming down her face as she enveloped me in a tight hug that bordered on pain. She explained that the cops finally came after receiving several calls from me.
My heart sank as I told her I had called them hours, if not a day before they showed up. Anger flared in her eyes as she listened, and I could see the fear and frustration etched into her features.
When the authorities arrived, they were met with a gruesome scene. The enormous wolf-like creature had my leg in its mouth, and the flesh on my face was mangled beyond recognition. They fired at the beast, but it stood on two legs and darted into the trees before they could get a clear shot.
Despite their efforts, they couldn't find it, but forest rangers were dispatched to search the area around the house in case it returned.
I tried to tell my Mom the whole story, but she quickly shushed me, embarrassment coloring her cheeks. She warned me not to tell anyone, fearing they would think I was crazy.
For fifteen years, I kept this horrifying ordeal to myself. Over those years, I acquired a prosthetic for my leg, but there was nothing I could do for my disfigured face. It served as a constant reminder of the trauma I had faced, haunting me every time I looked in the mirror.
Now, faced with a terminal diagnosis of cancer, I've made the decision to forgo treatment. I'm done with this world, but I refuse to let it take me out on its terms.
I've decided to return to the house to confront the creature that has haunted my nightmares for years. I'm at the closest diner, trying to muster the courage to face my fears, knowing I likely won't leave the house alive.
As I sit here, I can't help but feel the weight of my impending doom pressing down on me. I've been staring at the figure of the Dogman in the trees outside, just like when I was younger.
I started writing this to distract myself and prolong my mission, but now I have nothing else to write about. Now, I will head to the house; wish me luck.

Best way to acquire insurance on retired ambulance not converted? I’m driving from California halfway across the country home and want to make sure I have insurance coverage while doing so. Is this possible being that it’s not converted yet? Any advice? Thanks

Originally posted on the Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction Vol 132, No 3 & 4, March-April 2017.
Retrieved from the Internet Archive
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Continued From Here
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AFTER THE SESSION with the Buddhasaurs, Tom led Danner upstairs to his office.
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They barely noticed Christine's absence, though Dr. Margaret did and stayed downstairs to keep an eye on her.
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Axel sat in Danner's lap but couldn't stop moving, still tapping his tail to the Bomp.
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Tom had questions for Danner, dozens of questions he didn't know how to articulate.
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They came down to one, which he did ask: "What do you know about Geraldine?"
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The answer came down to: "We don't know where Geraldine originated. She's not one of Toyco's, I can tell you that."
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Tom picked up his empty coffee mug. "Other toy companies jumped on the bandwagon, making saurs, didn't they?"
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"In the heyday, about a dozen. Here and in Asia, Africa, Australia—all over. None of them made anything, any one, like Geraldine."
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"How about just a guy working in his basement?"
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"Your guess." Danner shrugged. "If it is—was— just a guy...I want to see that basement."
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"So would I."
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They stared at each other, doing the things two individuals do when they're not sure what to say, until Axel crawled onto Tom's desk, picked up a pen, and gripped it with his forepaw. He put one end of the pen in his mouth and pretended to blow into it as if it were a clarinet, humming the melody he'd heard Dizz playing earlier.
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Danner looked, listened, and asked, "What do you think of Geraldine?"
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Axel stopped humming and removed the pen from his mouth. "Tibor says he and Geraldine come from a big universe, bigger than the other universes because all the other universes fit inside it. They, like, make universes, like when you make bubbles with soapy water." He nodded to confirm the veracity of his statements.
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"Tibor made a machine that made bubbles— universe bubbles—but he couldn't shut it off." He shook his head: nope; uh-uh; stuck.
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"He came here to fix it, but he couldn't. That's why Geraldine came—'cause Tibor got stuck. But they need a big bubble machine to get where they're going." He nodded: yes; uh-huh; big bubble machine.
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"So until they find the big bubble machine, they're staying here with us." Axel noticed the button at one end of the pen. He slid the pen in his grip to where he could click the button, so that the pen point came out. He clicked it.
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For a moment, Danner just stared as if watching something disappear into thin air.
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Tom put his mug down and stared back like someone who had been watching things disappear all his life.
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Danner asked Axel, "Do you believe Tibor?"
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Axel clicked the pen button again. The point slipped back inside. Axel thought, Click Thing, but he said, "I saw them."
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"Saw what?"
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"The bubbles. They were all, like, space stuff —filled with stars. Like universes!" He clicked the pen again.
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Danner thought of asking Tom if he believed Axel, but what was the point? Axel couldn't lie.
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Danner, with a shudder, realized he, too, believed.
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Axel clicked the pen one more time. "I saw Guinevere go into Tibor's castle and come out of Geraldine's lab."
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Tom nodded to Danner. "I can't say I believe—but I accept. Leave it at that." He added, but only to himself, that if he believed Geraldine could do such a thing, could she also make a pink children's car appear in the attic, then move it downstairs?
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They went up to the museum. Danner looked at all the objects on the shelves and tables: mementos the saurs had saved for themselves; things children, former children (or "owners"), sent to them: drawings, doodads, clothing, other toys.
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He was still a little breathless from the walk up the stairs. "Do any of these things belong to you?" he asked Axel, who was now perched comfortably on his left forearm and humming Ahmed's tune.
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"I brought my Rotomotoman pictures up here, the ones Reggie helped me make. And the plans for how to put him together. Things like that belong in a museum, don't they?"
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"Definitely." Danner nodded solemnly. "Do you have anything here from before the time you came to this house?"
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"I don't remember anywhere but here." He tapped his foot against Danner's arm. "Sometimes I dream about before. I dream about my buddy, Lancelot. But I don't remember those dreams very good. That happen to you?"
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Danner shook his head. "Sometimes." He looked away. "Sometimes, I dream about ballrooms."
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"What's a ballroom?"
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"Big places humans went to dance."
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"Do humans dance?"
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"Not anymore."
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They returned to the second floor, to the workroom. Tom showed Danner Tibor's castle, its owner still downstairs in the VOOM! awaiting transport to Tiboria.
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Geraldine's "lab" stood across from Tibor's castle, on another desk: a cardboard box, smaller than Tibor's.
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But Axel led Danner to another desk first. Preston had returned to his keypad. Axel hopped down from Danner's arm and stood on Preston's desk.
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"This is my buddy Preston." Axel introduced the two, though they had already met downstairs. "He writes books!"
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"I know," said Danner.
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"You do?"
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Danner nodded. "Well, I didn't know. I suspected." He turned to Preston. "Something in your voice. I knew who you were, and what you were."
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Preston was about to reply when Axel interjected: "I didn't know humans could read books—other than Tom."
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"Thanks for noticing," said Tom.
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"Would you mind if I took a peek?" Danner asked Preston. "It's been so long since your last novel came out."
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"I don't mind." Preston put his keypad aside. "You might give me a hint, if you see where I might be straying."
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"I can't imagine the author of The Biographer of Loneliness straying at anything." He nodded thankfully and leaned in to read the words on the screen:
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"Do not ask me to tell my tale!" cried Sinbad. "It has slept peacefully for ten thousand years. If you raise it now, the world will shake. It will do more than shake; it will transform itself. It will become a new world. The world we create may not welcome us. Are you truly ready to take that chance?"
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His grandchildren called out, clear and unequivocal: "YES!"
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Sinbad, reluctant but obedient, bowed his head. "Then let us begin."
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Axel, who had been reading along with Danner, repeated the word that most caught his attention: " Yes!"
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"Why Sinbad?" Danner asked. "Your novels are set in future times and on faraway planets. Sinbad belongs to an older world of legend and myth, doesn't he?"
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Preston nodded. "It occurred to me one day that Sinbad was an adventurer, so why not a spacefarer? But—"
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"A space guy!" said Axel.
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"—he may also have been a liar," Preston continued. "He was definitely a storyteller. I came up with an idea. Two of his grandchildren implore him to embark on another journey. The city where they live is threatened by a plague. The grandchildren believe only Sinbad can save them, but he tells them that all his tales of adventure are lies. He is nobody. The grandchildren believe the only lie he ever told was that he was a liar. And so, if only not to disappoint these children, whom he loves, he sets out on one more journey. In the course of that journey, Sinbad discovers all the lies he told were in fact true. The lies had the power to change reality. For better or worse, the world can't be divided so simply as between truth and falsehood."
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Tom asked, "So how should it be divided?"
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Preston smiled. "I don't know. It's what I need to find out before I can finish the book."
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"And what if you don't find the answer?" Danner asked.
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"Then I will have a very unhappy publisher."
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Tom and Danner laughed.
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Axel ran to the edge of the desk and shouted to everyone down below on the floor of the workroom: "Sinbad is a space guy!" Then, remembering Ahmed's tune, he sang the words. "Sin-bad is a spaaaace guyyyy!"
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"Have you come up with a title yet?" asked Danner.
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"I'm calling it The Final Voyage of Sinbad."
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"'Final'?"
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"'Last' sounded too tentative."
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Danner laughed again. He only stopped when he glanced over at Geraldine's lab.
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He reached into his pocket. "If you would do me a great honor, sir." He took out a little notebook, the kind made of paper bound by a thin spiral of wire, and a pen—one with real ink in it. "Had I given it some thought, I would have brought from home my copy of one of your books."
​
Preston took the pen with his left forepaw. "How would you like me to sign it?"
​
"Any way—and any name—you'd like."
​
"Sin-bad is a spaaaace guyyyy! Sin-bad is a spa-a-a-a-ce guyyyy!"
​
Preston's penmanship was economical and elegant. He had practiced a signature for many years and had no trouble writing, "To Nick: With affection and gratitude—Preston," and in parentheses, "Ellis Lawrence Cartwright."
​
Danner returned the notebook and pen to his pocket without even reading the words.
​
He was looking at Geraldine's lab again.
​
"About time, eh?" He glanced at Tom with that combination of unease and optimism that was sometimes called a "nervous" smile.
​
Through the cutout doorway, Danner saw the flickers of light—the flashes—and a bioluminescent glow that faded in and out.
​
It was pink, at once frightening and familiar. Pink.
​
He heard the faint sounds that emanated from within the lab: low hums and high-pitched tones that were both near and far at once. It could have been a science fair project from a young Frankenstein-to-be.
​
He felt no fear, only mortality.
​
Geraldine came out, as if she had been expecting him.
​
He'd thought she would be bigger—with that strange grin and dark eyes—maybe the darkest eyes he had ever seen.
​
Tiny. Intense. Dangerous.
​
Smiling.
​
But...small.
​
She didn't say a word. She didn't have to. He knew exactly what she was saying/thinking: Are you stupid?
​
He nodded.
​
Doc, in the meantime, was just climbing the last few plastic stairs to the top of Preston's desk. His leg had been trickier than usual since lunchtime. The travel was arduous, but necessary, and he was too proud to be carried by Tom, like Axel—who greeted Doc at the top by telling him, " Sinbad is a space guy!"
​
"Yes, Geraldine," said Danner, "I am profoundly stupid. More stupid than dirt. Forgive me. I can't trust you, so I ask for your assurance—that what you ask me to do will lead to no evil or harm; to no injury, especially to the innocent; to no injustice. Can you assure me of those things?"
​
Danner stared as closely at Geraldine as he had ever stared at anything or anyone; as carefully as he ever stared at any set of sequences in all his years at Toyco.
​
All he could see were her eyes and her smile, unchanging.
​
All he could hear was Axel singing, encouraging the saurs below to join in. "Sin-bad is a spaaaace guyyyy!"
​
"Mr. Danner! Forgive me, sir." Doc's breathless voice was all urgency and precaution. "But is it—is it truly necessary to—?"
​
"What he means," said Preston, taking a place near Doc, "I think, is that we can't, or mustn't, barter ourselves to—" he looked at Geraldine "—to what we don't understand."
​
"Or trust?" Danner added.
​
Preston and Doc nodded.
​
Danner turned to Geraldine. "A fair question, isn't it?"
​
Geraldine did not reply.
​
"The only answer you'll give me is no answer?"
​
No answer.
​
"I came all this way—" He noticed, just under her right forefoot, a tiny square made of some thin, nearly transparent substance. He would have missed it altogether had it not pulsed slightly with a pink light.
​
With no change of expression, Geraldine appeared to be saying/thinking: Not now, but soon. You will help. Or are you—?"
​
"Stupid." Danner placed his hands on Preston's desk like someone who needed support, or a chair.
​
Tom brought him one, from a corner of the workroom. Danner placed it equidistant between Preston's and Geraldine's desks.
​
"Doc, you know very well, Toyco is being acquired by SANI."
​
Doc's thick brows curled in gravely.
​
Danner shook his head. "They don't make toys, Doc."
​
Doc nodded. "Indeed they do not."
​
The two humans and two saurs drew closer, into a little circle.
​
"SANI is not interested in making Ollie the Olive or Elvin the Elf or any of the other current Toyco junk," Danner said. "Most of their recent growth has been in defense and security. And they don't want saurs of any kind unless—"
​
"Unless," Doc interrupted him, "they can exploit the most aggressive tendencies of the most aggressive species—" he looked at Preston "—upon which we were modeled."
​
Preston looked at Doc. "Bioengineered soldiers—theropod soldiers."
​
Axel called down to the saurs below—to Tyrone and Alfie; Slim and Slam; Ace and his friends, riding their skates: " BOMP! dit-dit BOMP! dit-dit BOMP! dit-dit...."
​
The other saurs joined in quickly, thumping tails, clicking tongues, making mouth noises, keeping the beat as they had before. " BOMP! dit-dit BOMP! dit-dit BOMP! dit-dit...."
​
Back in the circle: "Perhaps the sages at SANI expect them to be more durable than the robot infantry they sold to those countries who thought fighting machines more cost effective than feeding and educating their poor," said Doc. "Aggressive, flexible, adaptable—"
​
"It won't work," said Tom.
​
"Of course it won't work," said Danner. "That won't prevent them from spending trillions to try."
​
Doc raised his brows and stared at each of his companions, one after the other. "There are greater costs than money."
​
No one around him needed convincing.
​
Danner lowered his head until he could stare at Geraldine directly eye-to-eye.
​
"So be it," he said.
​
Tom, Doc, and Preston looked at Danner. Each of them appeared to be asking, So be it? So be what?
​
Danner elaborated: "I don't know, but if Geraldine can prevent SANI from implementing their plans, I know what side I'm on."
​
Tom, Preston, and Doc muttered, in near-unison, "So be it."
​
From outside the circle—two humans, two saurs, one Geraldine—Axel led the saurs below, now singing along, "Sin-bad is a spaaaace guyyyy! Sin-bad is a spaaaace guyyyy!"
​
"We've got a problem." Dr. Margaret appeared in the doorway. She was the sort of person who never qualified her statements. No "maybes." Never a "perhaps."
​
"We've got a problem. And it has nothing to do with Geraldine."
​
​
ROSS REJECTED searching Agnes's lair to find the Click Thing: too obvious.
​
She had hidden items before in a cabinet in the sleep room, the one next to the big cabinet where all the blankets and comforters were kept.
​
Not this time.
​
On a hunch, Ross even checked the drawer in Rotomotoman's metal torso, the drawer that housed the incubator. It wouldn't have been a smart idea to store a Click Thing in such a place (certain kinds of batteries don't take kindly to heat), but after all...Agnes. The only object he found in there was a gray, speckled egg belonging to Doris, another gray (but friendlier) stegosaur. Ross gently stroked the egg and looked up into the oversized eyes of Rotomotoman.
​
"Good egg!" Ross had to lower his head so that he could salute with his short forearm.
​
Rotomotoman returned the salute.
​
Ross went next to the museum.
​
Agnes often puttered around in there when she thought no one was watching, not even Sluggo. Two shelves below the one where she kept most of her things (no one was supposed to know they were her things, though everyone did, like the little chain with the star on it: whenever she took it out she always said, "Molly," but never explained who Molly was), was a carton filled with boxed games, the kind with boards, special decks of cards, and little markers.
​
Stuffed into the bottom was a plastic container labeled "Dominoes." Ross opened it and sifted through the tiles. One of them was not uniformly black, like the others, but hastily covered with black marker in an effort to hide its original bright pink color. He pulled it out and confirmed:
​
"Click Thing!"
​
He tossed it into the air and caught it with his forepaw.
​
He quickly returned the box of dominoes to the carton, stopped at his "secret" place to pick up a fresh parsnip, rode the lift down to the first floor, and walked straight to the VOOM! where Tibor had been waiting, uninterrupted (except for lunch), for transport to Tiboria.
​
"Here!" Ross tossed the Click Thing onto the front seat. "Go tell Axel. Now he own da road!"
​
It was time for the afternoon traffic reports to begin. Ross, with his parsnip, adjourned to the former dining room and Alphonse's radio to listen to Abby Riley.
​
Tibor looked down from his perch atop the seat-back and stared at the Click Thing for a full minute before he announced, to an audience of none, "Tibor has found the Click Thing!" and hopped down to investigate.
​
​
While Axel wandered off to sing some more and spread the word of Sinbad's interplanetary predilections, Dr. Margaret, in Tom's office, gave the little circle her news: Christine was collecting genetic samples.
​
She used some swabs and tissues kept in what looked like a little makeup kit in her purse. She watched who ate what at lunchtime and snuck into the kitchen while Danner was teaching the Buddhasaurs to Bomp. Dr. Margaret had seen her. Reggie and the cameras caught everything else. Later, Bronte and Kara saw her still at it.
​
Danner looked broken. "I can't apologize enough." His voice lost all its lows and highs. "I've jeopardized you and the saurs. I shouldn't have brought her."
​
Doc held out his forelimb. "We share the blame, Mr. Danner. We were all, save Dr. Margaret, too distracted to keep an eye on her. The play isn't over yet. She may change her mind."
​
"Not likely," said Tom.
​
"She has to go," said Dr. Margaret. "Now."
​
"I agree." When Danner rose, his manner shifted from disappointment to shame. "I am so—"
​
"We know," said Preston.
​
The saurs in the hallway could see how the humans' mood had changed as they left Tom's office, Doc and Preston with them. The saurs watched carefully and word spread: something was up.
​
Doc waited at the top of the stairs for the lift to return. The lift platform rode up smoothly and slowly and a few saurs exited. Doc stepped on and clutched the guardrail with his forelimb. Preston followed.
​
Dr. Margaret, hands in her pockets, looked at Danner. "Some say you really invented the saurs; you made them who they are."
​
"I'm just a Sequencer. I have a knack with patterns. The designers give me their stuff. I do what they tell me."
​
"But you didn't do what they told you."
​
Danner shook his head. "A genome isn't like a piece of machinery. It's a living thing. It changes. It has gaps and holes, and what falls through are possibilities —potentialities."
​
Dr. Margaret stared at him. She even forgot to take a few more steps to keep pace with the lift moving down at her right.
​
"But you knew."
​
"I filed a report. I went to management. But when a Sequencer says something, managers usually do the opposite." Danner kept up with Doc and Preston in the lift.
​
Dr. Margaret didn't.
​
"You knew!" Her voice was sharp, clinical. "You could have done something!"
​
Danner acknowledged her with a nod. "I didn't. Had I blown the whistle and succeeded, a hundred thousand saurs—or maybe five hundred thousand—never would have come to consciousness. All those thousands would not have been abused, starved, neglected, tortured, destroyed en masse by a panic-stricken toy company. I could have spared the world that misery. Or not."
​
The lift reached the first floor. Tom waited there as Doc let go of the guardrail. Preston supported Doc as he redistributed his weight onto that tricky left leg.
​
Danner gestured to Doc and Preston. "They wouldn't be here. None of them. Without them, Tom might be a wealthy CEO somewhere in the city. You would be in some research lab earning a Nobel Prize. I would be living in a box under the freeway." Danner looked up at Dr. Margaret. "Once you've pushed the button, it can't be un-pushed. Was I right?"
​
She could only stare back.
​
"Was I right, Dr. Pagliotti?"
​
Dr. Margaret looked at Tom. Tom looked away.
​
Doc smiled up at Dr. Margaret as he exited the lift with Preston. "If I am a mistake, you may count me a grateful one."
​
Dr. Margaret never qualified her statements—no "maybe;" never "perhaps." So she said nothing.
​
What she thought, though, was that for all the wealth, health, and acclaim—all the things she wished for in life—she would never, not in a million years, trade places with Nicholas Danner.
​
​
There was something different about VOOM! Axel could see it when he came downstairs: it glowed —the raised windows glowed. That's how it looked from outside.
​
From inside, through those same windows, Tibor, perched on his seat-back, could see—Tiboria!
​
Tiboria! Proud Tiboria! Strong member of the Tiborean Alliance. Steadfast with the United Planets of Tibor. Tiboria: beacon of hope, of learning and culture for ten thousand planets. He could hear, faintly, the strains of the Tiborean Anthem and successfully fought back a tear.
​
From where he stood, next to the driver's-side door, Axel shouted, "You found the click thing!"
​
The door was closed.
​
"Tibor has found what you call the Click Thing, from here on to be known as Tibor's Master Control!"
​
"Where'd you find it?" Axel was at loss as to how to enter the VOOM! The convertible top was never raised, so with the windows down, Axel had been able to hop up and climb over the car door to get inside. With the windows up, he had little to grip. Instead, he crawled onto the hood and scaled the windshield.
​
He landed on the front seat and took his place standing atop the Zemblia. From there, staring at all the inner windows, it looked like he was on the highway, the one that the road from the house led to. The sun was in its morning position even though it was now late afternoon. And even though it was kilometers away, Axel could see the megalopolitan skyline. He stared in awe and forgot everything else.
​
He even forgot about VOOM!, though he was inside it.
​
A skyline is just a throw-together of towers and structures—a cacophony of elevations. But it is also an accumulation, like a library, or a university, or a warehouse—a collective statement by humanity. It is also like an anthill, or an entire complex of mounds that defines the ant culture. There is no one way to look at it; it holds a different value in the eye of each beholder.
​
Axel, the beholder of the moment, was stunned.
​
The skyline spoke to him: "There is more. There is so much more!"
​
"So much more," Axel echoed the skyline. "So, so, so much more!"
​
What Axel was seeing were images already a decade old, recorded and synchronized by Mappo™'s clever cameras. The simulation, for its time, was rather remarkable. A child could drive or ride in VOOM! and feel as if he or she were traveling through the world—or as much of the world as Mappo™ could capture. Along with the intricate recreation of the world through moving images, Mappo™ could accentuate the experience with interactive elements borrowed from the gaming industry—other vehicles, cyclists, pedestrians.
​
If you turned into a parking lot in your VOOM!, the on-duty machine spat out a ticket. A rude driver might try to cut you off. If you chose to drive in a heavily populated part of downtown, throngs of pedestrians would squeeze their way around your vehicle as you waited to make a right turn. The simulations included fender-bending accidents, with tow trucks, traffic cops, even ambulances when necessary; insurance agents and personal injury attorneys were included but rarely utilized.
​
The Click Thing was clutched between Tibor's forelimbs, except for moments when he tapped a button which redirected the vehicle on its virtual journey, which wasn't often.
​
Axel looked at the speedometer: twenty kilometers per hour, which felt to Axel counterintuitive to the purposes of VOOM!
​
"You're not going very fast," Axel told Tibor, as if Tibor might not be aware of this.
​
"It is necessary for Tibor to proceed at a parade speed, to allow the grateful and adoring citizens of Tiboria to celebrate their leader."
​
Axel looked through the windshield/screen. He checked the other windows. "Nobody's out there," he said.
​
"They will come," said Tibor.
​
"Maybe they're waiting in the city." Axel looked toward the skyline again.
​
"A distinct possibility."
​
"Don't you think we should, like, go there?"
​
"That is our destination."
​
"I mean, like, faster."
​
"In good time. Tibor's rural followers should have the same opportunities to honor their leader as the city's denizens."
​
"Oh." Axel kept looking forward. "The second button on the left makes it go faster."
​
"Tibor knows."
​
"Your guys in the city are getting pretty hungry, I bet."
​
"Some things are more important than food."
​
"Like, getting to the city."
​
"Axel must learn patience."
​
"Oh." He thought about it for a moment. "Why?"
​
"Patience is a virtue."
​
"Oh." He thought about it for another moment. "Why?"
​
Tibor gave it no thought at all. "Virtues need no further explanation."
​
"Oh." Axel thought about this some more. "Why?"
​
For a much shorter moment, Tibor thought, then asked, "Hasn't Tibor appointed you Official Royal Tiborean Chauffeur?"
​
"That means I get to drive, right?"
​
"You are correct." Tibor loosened his hold on the Click Thing and let it slip to the front seat.
​
Axel jumped down from the Zemblia, grabbed it, then hopped back up onto the thick volume.
​
"It's covered in black stuff!" Axel flipped the Click Thing over, and then the right way up.
​
"Camouflage," said Tibor.
​
"Oh." Axel flipped the Click Thing over again. "So it's okay I drive now?"
​
Tibor made a faint sound, like a gulp. "Commence," he said.
​
Axel took that to mean yes. He leaned forward and took hold of the wheel with his left forelimb. With his right, he held the Click Thing and pressed the button to accelerate.
​
And pressed it again.
​
And again.
​
The drab, exurban landscape visible around Axel and Tibor on the inner screens became a smear of drab, exurban colors. Tibor lurched back with the acceleration, even though the acceleration was illusory—VOOM! hadn't moved a millimeter. The onscreen images and accompanying noises played tricks with their perceptions.
​
"Yeah!" Axel pressed the button a few more times. "Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah!"
​
The blur of sudden speed passed. The landscape regained its clarity but seemed to fly by like a video running on "Fast"—which is what it was. The skyline was twice as large as it looked before, but to Axel it was still too far away. He swung the wheel left and right to avoid the vehicles ahead.
​
At one point, he switched to the shoulder; no one appeared to be driving there.
​
He shot past the other vehicles with ease, but then he spotted an open field at a place where the highway veered away from the city.
​
The voice of Reggie emerged from the car's radio speaker. "It is considered standard practice to maintain your vehicle upon the road you're traveling."
​
"The city is that way!" Axel pointed with the same forepaw he was using to hold the Click Thing.
​
"The road returns to its cityward direction farther on."
​
"How do you know?"
​
"Reggie is acquainted with all the maps, geography, and topographical features of your immediate surroundings."
​
"Where am I going?"
​
"You are— were —on the road to the city."
​
"Yeah!" Axel noticed how his speed had declined since the vehicle left the shoulder. The tall grass and short shrubbery created a certain degree of drag. He turned VOOM! back toward the highway, taking the embankment with realistic jerks and jumps—even sounds of the car's groaning suspension.
​
Axel heard a voice coming from just below—under the seat: "Tibor orders Axel to remain on the highway!"
​
"What are you doing down there?"
​
Tibor waited until the simulated sound of the underside of VOOM! scraping against gravel subsided. "Tibor orders Axel—"
​
"I thought you wanted to see all your cheering subject guys and stuff—"
​
"Tibor no longer wishes to see!"
​
With another lurch and a commanding (and quite realistic) thud, VOOM! returned to the shoulder. Unfortunately, VOOM! was now on the wrong side of the guardrail. Ahead, Axel could see the shoulder was about to merge with an entrance ramp, equipped with its own guardrail. The space for VOOM! quickly narrowed.
​
"I can't get back on the road!"
​
"Tibor wishes to know the location of the escape hatch!"
​
Reggie counseled, "If Axel were to make a slight course correction to the right, winging the guardrail but not striking the vertical supports, at this acceleration, the virtual damage to your vehicle will be comparatively small. The actual damage will be nonexistent."
​
It was hard to tell if Axel was paying attention, but he struck the guardrail in the prescribed way. The rail, and the VOOM!'s right fender, made an awful smacking sound, which might have produced a stronger reaction from Axel were he not more preoccupied with the vehicle's recoil, which threw him, the car, and its passengers into the path of oncoming traffic.
​
"They're coming right at me!"
​
Reggie suggested he return to the shoulder until he could find a break in the traffic while adjusting his speed. Reggie would have accepted one out of two, but Axel, all too willing to comply, was forced to concentrate on an approaching swarm of delivery vans.
​
"Your vehicle is equipped with emergency hazard lights. Reggie suggests—"
​
"AAAAAAAA!"
​
"If you stay right—"
​
"AAAAAAAAA!"
​
"Veer left—"
​
"AAAAAAAAAA!"
​
"If you would—"
​
It wasn't long before Reggie was forced to abandon any detailed strategies in exchange for one-word commands: "Right!" "Left!" "Stop!" "Now!"
​
These sharp directives were of limited use, as Axel often confused right and left (being "left-forelimbed"). Reggie included "Slow!" many times, but Axel must have decided this wasn't so much a word as a percussive voicing. Soon, in Axel's ear, it all sounded like percussive voicing: "Turn!" "Right!" "Left!" "Slow!" "Stop!" "Right!" "Left!" "Slow!" "Right!" "Right!" "Left!" " Slow!"
​
Axel made it along three kilometers of the Chandler Expressway before he found the lanes that were actually headed in his direction. His erratic veering was one thing; the screechings, halts, and panicked maneuvers of the vehicles sharing the road with him were something else altogether.
​
Mappo™ collected data (even now, with the company long defunct; but it couldn't help itself—it was software) on basic accidents, collisions to catastrophes, logged in by its youthful users. Axel, in the brief moments since taking the wheel (the Click Thing, really) exceeded nearly every category Mappo™ established: children's safety classifications such as Ace, Safety Queen, Sober Sam, and Earnest Ed. At the other end of the scale: Dangerous Dan, Sloppy Sid, and Eliminator's Choice.
​
Axel could have inspired new categories: Disaster Dave, Burn Baby Burn, or Maker of Wreckage and Flame. All he would have had to do to see why was glance back, or check his mirrors, had he known where the mirrors were (or that there were mirrors at all).
​
Axel didn't like to look back.
​
Haze and smoke rising from the Chandler Expressway obscured his view of the skyline, but Axel was closer to his destination now. The buildings at his left and right were growing progressively taller, larger. He was almost in the heart of the city, though if he looked straight upward, past the inner windows of the VOOM!, he would have seen the familiar ceiling of the living room.
​
Or so he believed
​
It didn't matter. "Yes!" Axel shouted. "Yes! Yes! Yes!"
​
​
Mr. Austin was responsible for Christine receiving just one thing, that day in Zoey's office, when the door clicked shut behind them—the day Danner asked her to come to the house with him.
​
One thing.
​
It wasn't the DNA sample kit—that was left in the drawer of her desk.
​
It wasn't the scrambler, also left in her drawer, no bigger than an e-key, used to cut through electronic security grids and mess with wireless signals—expensive, but accessible and legal. If anyone asked, she could answer with full honesty, "I found them."
​
The most oft-uttered word in the bioengineering business, in any business, is "liability."
​
"In no way can Toyco, or SANI, request, require, authorize, solicit, or suggest solicitation of any information or evidence, physical or otherwise, pertaining to the genetic codes or genomes of any beings, natural or invented." That's what Mr. Austin said over the teleconference phone, its volume turned conspiratorially low. "We're bound by law. However, the law also frees us from any liability concerning information or evidence, physical or otherwise, pertaining to genetic codes of any beings natural or invented, freely volunteered, donated, or submitted to our Research Division."
​
"What that means," Christine said, looking at Zoey but speaking to Mr. Austin, "is if I'm caught, I can be arrested and prosecuted, but the corporation can't be touched."
​
Neither confirmed or denied, which Christine interpreted as a yes.
​
"Why would anyone risk it?"
​
"If someone were to volunteer such information to our Research Division," Zoey said, "SANI is permitted to acknowledge a freely volunteered contribution, which would be noted on future employment evaluations."
​
Christine translated: promotion.
​
"I understand." Her voice was as flat as Mr. Austin's.
​
Zoey handed Christine the little notebook, with its slips of paper bound with a spiral wire.
​
One thing; that was it.
​
She had a question—risky to ask, but she had to.
​
"What's with Nicholas Danner? Why's he still working here?"
​
Zoey's brow curved with worry as she started to say something, only to be interrupted by Mr. Austin.
​
"Mr. Danner is an asset, Ms. Haig. One never knows when an asset might come in handy. You needn't concern yourself."
​
A vague answer was better than none. She slipped the notebook into her purse and left Zoey's office without further comment.
​
​
Continued Here

Examples:

• 10 Things I Hate About You (Gil Junger): A high-school boy, Cameron, cannot date Bianca until her anti-social older sister, Kat, has a boyfriend. So, Cameron pays a mysterious boy, Patrick, to charm Kat.
• The 13th Warrior (John McTiernan & Michael Crichton): A man, having fallen in love with the wrong woman, is sent by the sultan himself on a diplomatic mission to a distant land as an ambassador. Stopping at a Viking village port to restock on supplies, he finds himself unwittingly embroiled in a quest to banish a mysterious threat in a distant Viking land.
• 8MM (Joel Schumacher): A private investigator is hired to discover if a "snuff film" is authentic or not.
• All About My Mother (Pedro Almodóvar): A comedy-drama about a bereaved mother, and overwrought actress, her jealous lover, and a pregnant nun.
• American Beauty (Sam Mendes): A sexually frustrated suburban father has a mid-life crisis after becoming infatuated with his daughter's best friend.
• American Movie (Chris Smith): Documentary about an aspiring filmmaker's attempts to finance his dream project by finally completing the low-budget horror film he abandoned years before.
• American Pie (Paul & Chris Weitz): Four teenage boys enter a pact to lose their virginity by prom night.
• Analyze This (Harold Ramis): A comedy about a psychiatrist whose number-one patient is an insecure mob boss.
• Any Given Sunday (Oliver Stone): A behind-the-scenes look at the life-and-death struggles of modern-day gladiators and those who lead them.
• Arlington Road (Mark Pellington): A man begins to suspect his neighbors are not what they appear to be and their secrets could be deadly.
• Austin Powers: The Spy Who Shagged Me (Jay Roach): Dr. Evil is back and has invented a new time machine that allows him to go back to the 1960s and steal Austin Powers' mojo, inadvertently leaving him "shagless".
• Being John Malkovich (Spike Jonze): A puppeteer discovers a portal that leads literally into the head of movie star John Malkovich.
• Bicentennial Man (Chris Columbus): An android endeavors to become human as he gradually acquires emotions.
• Big Daddy (Dennis Dugan): A lazy law school graduate adopts a kid to impress his girlfriend, but everything doesn't go as planned.
• The Blair Witch Project (Daniel Myrick & Eduardo Sánchez): Three film students vanish after traveling into a Maryland forest to film a documentary on the local Blair Witch legend, leaving only their footage behind.
• Blast from the Past (Hugh Wilson): A naive man comes out into the world after spending 35 years in a nuclear fallout shelter.
• Bleeder (Nicolas Winding Refn): Two stories for the price of one: Lenny works in a video shop and tries to get aquainted with the waitress Lea. Leo beats his pregnant wife, Louise, which is a VERY bad idea, as her brother, Louis, is a violent racist.
• The Bone Collector (Phillip Noyce): A quadriplegic ex-homicide detective and his partner try to track down a serial killer who is terrorizing New York City.
• The Boondock Saints (Troy Duffy): Two Irish Catholic brothers become vigilantes and wipe out Boston's criminal underworld in the name of God.
• Bowfinger (Frank Oz): When a desperate movie producer fails to get a major star for his bargain-basement film, he decides to shoot the film secretly around him.
• Boys Don't Cry (Kimberly Peirce): A young man named Brandon Teena navigates love, life, and being transgender in rural Nebraska.
• Bringing Out the Dead (Martin Scorsese): Haunted by the patients he failed to save, a monumentally burned-out Manhattan ambulance paramedic fights to maintain his sanity over three increasingly turbulent nights.
• Buena Vista Social Club (Wim Wenders): Aging Cuban musicians whose talents had been virtually forgotten following Castro's takeover of Cuba, are brought out of retirement by Ry Cooder, who travelled to Havana in order to bring the musicians together, resulting in triumphant performances of extraordinary music, and resurrecting the musicians' careers.
• The Cider House Rules (Lasse Hallström): A compassionate young man, raised in an orphanage and trained to be a doctor there, decides to leave to see the world.
• Cruel Intentions (Roger Kumble): Two vicious step-siblings of an elite Manhattan prep school make a wager: to deflower the new headmaster's daughter before the start of term.
• Deep Blue Sea (Renny Harlin): Searching for a cure to Alzheimer's disease, a group of scientists on an isolated research facility become the prey, as a trio of intelligent sharks fight back.
• Dick (Andrew Fleming): After wandering off during a White House tour, two high school girls inadvertently become Richard Nixon's top secret advisers at the height of the Watergate scandal.
• Dogma (Kevin Smith): An abortion clinic worker with a special heritage is called upon to save the existence of humanity from being negated by two renegade angels trying to exploit a loop-hole and reenter Heaven.
• Doug's 1st Movie (Maurice Joyce): Doug and his pal Skeeter set out to find the monster of Lucky Duck Lake.
• Drop Dead Gorgeous (Michael Patrick Jann): A small-town beauty pageant turns deadly as it becomes clear that someone will go to any lengths to win.
• Dudley Do-Right (Hugh Wilson): The inept Canadian Mountie Dudley Do-Right chases after villain Snidely Whiplash and woos girlfriend Nell Fenwick.
• Edtv (Ron Howard): A video store clerk agrees to have his life filmed by a camera crew for a television show.
• Election (Alexander Payne): A high school teacher meets his match in an over-achieving student politician.
• End of Days (Peter Hyams): At the end of the century, Satan visits New York in search of a bride. It's up to an ex-cop who now runs an elite security outfit to stop him.
• Entrapment (Jon Amiel): An insurance agent is sent by her employer to track down and help capture an art thief.
• eXistenZ (David Cronenberg): A game designer on the run from assassins must play her latest virtual reality creation with a marketing trainee to determine if the game has been damaged.
• Eyes Wide Shut (Stanley Kubrick): A Manhattan doctor embarks on a bizarre, night-long odyssey after his wife's admission of unfulfilled longing.
• Fight Club (David Fincher): An insomniac office worker and a devil-may-care soap maker form an underground fight club that evolves into much more.
• For Love of the Game (Sam Raimi): After 19 years of playing the game he's loved his whole life, Detroit Tigers pitcher Billy Chapel has to decide if he's going to risk everything and put everything out there.
• Galaxy Quest (Dean Parisot): The alumni cast of a space opera television series have to play their roles as the real thing when an alien race needs their help. However, they also have to defend both Earth and the alien race from a reptilian warlord.
• The General's Daughter (Simon West): When the daughter of a well-known and well-respected base commander is murdered, an undercover detective is summoned to look into the matter and finds a slew of cover-ups at West Point.
• Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samurai (Jim Jarmusch): An African-American Mafia hit man who models himself after the samurai of old finds himself targeted for death by the mob.
• Girl, Interrupted (James Mangold): A directionless teenager, Susanna, is rushed to Claymoore, a mental institution, after a supposed suicide attempt. There, she befriends a group of troubled women who deeply influence her life.
• Go (Doug Liman): The aftermath of a drug deal as told from three different points of view.
• The Green Mile (Frank Darabont): A tale set on death row, where gentle giant John Coffey possesses the mysterious power to heal people's ailments. When the lead guard, Paul Edgecombe, recognizes John's gift, he tries to help stave off the condemned man's execution.
• The Haunting (Jan de Bont): Dr. Marrow enlists Theo, Luke and Nell for a study of sleep disorders at the Hill House. As soon as the terrifying truth about the mansion is revealed, everyone is found fighting for their lives.
• House on Haunted Hill (William Malone): An amusement park mogul offers a group of diverse people $1,000,000 to spend the night in a haunted house with a horrifying past.
• The Insider (Michael Mann): A research chemist comes under personal and professional attack when he decides to appear in a 60 Minutes exposé on Big Tobacco.
• Inspector Gadget (David Kellog): A security guard's dreams come true when he is selected to be transformed into a cybernetic police officer.
• The Iron Giant (Brad Bird): A young boy befriends a giant robot from outer space that a paranoid government agent wants to destroy.
• Jawbreaker (Darren Stein): Three of the most popular girls at Reagan High accidentally kill the prom queen with a jawbreaker when a kidnapping goes horribly wrong.
• Lake Placid (Steve Miner): Four people attempt to stop a gigantic crocodile, who is terrorizing residents in Black Lake, Maine.
• The Limey (Steven Soderbergh): An extremely volatile and dangerous Englishman goes to Los Angeles to find the man he considers responsible for his daughter's death.
• Magnolia (Paul Thomas Anderson): An epic mosaic of interrelated characters in search of love, forgiveness and meaning in the San Fernando Valley.
• Man on the Moon (Miloš Forman): The life and career of legendary comedian Andy Kaufman.
• The Matrix (Lana & Lilly Wachowski): When a beautiful stranger leads computer hacker Neo to a forbidding underworld, he discovers the shocking truth--the life he knows is the elaborate deception of an evil cyber-intelligence.
• The Mummy (Stephen Sommers): At an archaeological dig in the ancient city of Hamunaptra, an American serving in the French Foreign Legion accidentally awakens a mummy who begins to wreak havoc as he searches for the reincarnation of his long-lost love.
• Muppets from Space (Tim Hill): Gonzo is contacted by his alien family through his breakfast cereal. But when the men in black kidnap him, it's up to Kermit and the gang to rescue Gonzo and help him reunite with his long-lost family.
• Music of the Heart (Wes Craven): After Roberta Guaspari separates from her husband, she receives encouragement from her mother to take up a job of a music teacher at the Central Park East School in East Harlem.
• My Favorite Martian (Donald Petrie): A Martian lands on Earth and makes friends with a reporter.
• Mystery Men (Kinka Usher): A group of inept amateur superheroes must try to save the day when a supervillain threatens to destroy a major superhero and the city.
• Never Been Kissed (Raja Gosnell): A newspaper reporter enrolls in high school as part of research for a story.
• Notting Hill (Roger Michell): A set of circumstances makes Anna Scott, a famous actress, fall in love with William Thacker, owner of a bookstore in Notting Hill. But the paparazzi's fascination with her complicates their bond.
• October Sky (Joe Johnston): The true story of Homer Hickam, a coal miner's son who was inspired by the first Sputnik launch to take up rocketry against his father's wishes.
• Office Space (Mike Judge): Three company workers who hate their jobs decide to rebel against their greedy boss.
• Payback (Brian Helgeland): After a successful heist, Porter is left for dead. Once he recovers, he seeks vengeance and wants his share of the money.
• Ravenous (Antonia Bird): In a remote military outpost in the 19th century, Captain John Boyd and his regiment embark on a rescue mission which takes a dark turn when they are ambushed by a sadistic cannibal.
• Runaway Bride (Garry Marshall): A reporter is assigned to write a story about a woman who has left a string of fiancés at the altar.
• She's All That (Robert Iscove): A high school jock makes a bet that he can turn an unattractive girl into the school's prom queen.
• The Sixth Sense (M. Night Shyamalan): Malcolm Crowe, a child psychologist, starts treating a young boy, Cole, who encounters dead people and convinces him to help them. In turn, Cole helps Malcolm reconcile with his estranged wife.
• Sleepy Hollow (Tim Burton): Ichabod Crane is sent to Sleepy Hollow to investigate the decapitations of three people; the culprit is legendary apparition The Headless Horseman.
• South Park: Bigger, Longer & Uncut (Trey Parker): When Stan Marsh and his friends go see an R-rated movie, they start cursing and their parents think that Canada is to blame.
• Star Wars: Episode I - The Phantom Menace (George Lucas): Two Jedi escape a hostile blockade to find allies and come across a young boy who may bring balance to the Force, but the long dormant Sith resurface to claim their original glory.
• Stir of Echoes (David Koepp): After being hypnotized by his sister-in-law, a man begins seeing haunting visions of a girl's ghost and a mystery begins to unfold around him.
• The Straight Story (David Lynch): An old man makes a long journey by lawnmower to mend his relationship with an ill brother.
• Stuart Little (Rob Minkoff): The Little family adopt a charming young mouse named Stuart, but the family cat wants rid of him.
• Summer of Sam (Spike Lee): Spike Lee's take on the "Son of Sam" murders in New York City during the summer of 1977 centering on the residents of an Italian-American Northeast Bronx neighborhood who live in fear and distrust of one another.
• The Talented Mr. Ripley (Anthony Minghella): In late 1950s New York, a young underachiever named Tom Ripley is sent to Italy to retrieve Dickie Greenleaf, a rich and spoiled millionaire playboy. But when the errand fails, Ripley takes extreme measures.
• Tarzan (Chris Buck & Kevin Lima): A man raised by gorillas must decide where he really belongs when he discovers he is a human.
• The Thomas Crown Affair (John McTiernan): A very rich and successful playboy amuses himself by stealing artwork, but may have met his match in a seductive detective.
• Three Kings (David O. Russell): In the aftermath of the Persian Gulf War, four soldiers set out to steal gold that was stolen from Kuwait, but they discover people who desperately need their help.
• Toy Story 2 (John Lasseter, Ash Brannon, Lee Unkrich) When Woody is stolen by a toy collector, Buzz and his friends set out on a rescue mission to save Woody before he becomes a museum toy property with his roundup gang Jessie, Prospector, and Bullseye.
• Trick (Jim Fall): The misadventures of two young gay men, trying to find a place to be alone, one night in Manhattan.
• True Crime (Clint Eastwood): Can an over-the-hill journalist uncover the evidence that can prove a death row inmate's innocence just hours before his execution?
• Varsity Blues (Brian Robbins): A back-up quarterback is chosen to lead a Texas football team to victory after the star quarterback is injured.
• The Virgin Suicides (Sofia Coppola): A group of male friends become obsessed with five mysterious sisters who are sheltered by their strict, religious parents in suburban Detroit in the mid 1970s.
• Wild Wild West (Barry Sonnenfeld): The two best special agents in the Wild West must save President Grant from the clutches of a diabolical, wheelchair-bound, steampunk-savvy, Confederate scientist bent on revenge for losing the Civil War.
• The World Is Not Enough (Michael Apted): James Bond uncovers a nuclear plot while protecting an oil heiress from her former kidnapper, an international terrorist who can't feel pain.

Hello all, I recently passed NREMT and got my state EMTB license in Louisiana. The local private ambulance company is always hiring so that's not exactly my issue. I'm currently employed at a plasma donation center, and will be receiving a raise and new title due to my recently acquired license. My new wage is higher than what I would be paid working the streets as a basic by more than a couple bucks. I want to gain experience on a truck because I want to try my hand in paramedic school, but at the same time, I absolutely cannot afford to take a pay cut. Has anyone else been in this situation ?

Ever since I was prescribed Duloxetine, my life has followed an unfortunate set of circumstances. The awful reaction I had to this medication is still causing me insomnia today, and it's been 2 months of living in this nightmare. This is the story of how Duloxetine ruined my life.
Before I start, I need to emphasize that this story is not intended to encourage anyone to avoid Duloxetine; my goal is to forewarn individuals who are considering trying this antidepressant drug to consult their Doctor first and discuss their biological risk of developing the horrific side effects this medication has evoked in me.
Something I've noticed is that I am someone who cannot tolerate any reuptake inhibitor drug, so I should have known better than to start a new one. Previously, I was taking Wellbutrin and Venlafaxine simultaneously. I then tapered off with Prozac, which resulted in serotonin syndrome. I quit Methylphenidate because it makes me excited and angsty, and I am a recovering crack cocaine addict, which, for those of you who don't know this, cocaine works as a serotonin-norepinephrine-dopamine-reuptake inhibitor, or for short form SNDRI.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Serotonin–norepinephrine–dopamine_reuptake_inhibitor#Addiction
Sound familiar? It should be because all of the drugs mentioned work via reuptake inhibition, similar to cocaine. The reason I bring up this is because everyone I've smoked crack with can tolerate it better, and the duration of their high would last exponentially longer than me. Meanwhile, I crash really hard, sometimes really quickly. So thus, my theory is that regardless of whether it's pharmaceuticals or street drugs, I cannot personally tolerate any reuptake inhibitors. So, if you can relate to this yourself, use precaution when considering a new antidepressant, ask your Doctor about the mechanisms of action and educate yourself on the drugs that you are going to put in your body.
And now….. On to the Story.
To preface this story, I am a 21-year-old Male; I live in a country where hospital visits are free, and medications are insured by the government for those under 25 years of age. I have been battling crack addiction for 5 years now. I quit 10 months ago, and since then, I've had about 5 slip-ups. I've been an addict since I was 14, and I have literally been to rehab 6 times. I'm currently on a waiting list to get into rehab, and it has almost been a year since my relapse, and I'm still figuring this shit out.
This story began in February of 2024. At this time, I had been on 30mg of Duloxetine for a month, with no effects nor side effects, so my dose was increased to 60mg just 5 days before my admission date into rehab.
I've been adjusting and changing meds since I was 17 for my mental health, and on this particular day, when my dad dropped me off at the rehab, he noticed I was more stable than he's seen me for as long as he can remember. "Boy, was he wrong"!
After settling in my room, I was ready to participate in the program. I found some friends, and we all sat at a table together in the cafeteria. When lunch was served, I noticed that my appetite had vanished entirely, and I was repulsed by the thought of eating at all, but I didn't give it much thought.
When I was in line for nighttime meds, I was very confident that my good old reliable Zolpidem 10mg would warmly nussle me to sleep like a lullaby, as it always did. I practiced good sleep hygiene before bed, including showering, avoiding screens for 2 hours, making the bed, and taking my meds immediately before bed. After 15 minutes, I felt the Zolpidem's comforting effects; however, I was still awake an hour after taking it, which was unusual. At first, I thought, "Maybe I'm just getting acclimated to the program," but soon enough, the Zolpidem wore off, and I was wide awake. So I hunkered down and had no option but to lay in bed the whole night.
I wasn't that bent out of shape or pissed off the next day because 24 hours without sleep isn't a lot of time to be awake for me, and I've probably done it 100 times already. Furthermore, at this time, I was prescribed a brand of 50mg Methylphenidate called Foquest, which has triple layer beads, designed to release 3 times throughout the day for a longer lasting extended release effect than double layer beaded XR medications like Adderall or Dexedrine.
I was thrilled when the sun came up, reasonably so because I had been basically confined to that room all night. Once the wake-up call went off, I was free to go elsewhere, like the TV room, to lay down on the couches or sit in the cafeteria to socialize with the early birds, and nobody appeared to notice I hadn't slept at all.
My concern was amplified when I was still repulsed by my breakfast, but I went on about my day, attended all of the daily programming, and soon enough, it was nighttime again. "Surely, I'll be able to sleep this time," I said. Anyone would pass out from exhaustion if they were sober the whole time like me."
Nighttime meds came again, and now I was less confident in the Zolpidem to do its duty. However, I was prescribed 10mg diazepam and 300mg pregabalin at bedtime on top of the Zolpidem. So, at this point, I was relying on the back-burner meds. Sure enough, the meds wore off after an hour, and eventually, I called it quits again, but I knew I had to preserve my energy, so I stayed in bed tossing and turning, just trying to sleep, but to no avail. On this night, I thought to myself, "Maybe I'm just going through weed withdrawal," although I hadn't noticed any cravings or anything up to this point, so it never occurred to me prior.
As the clock struck 6 am, 48 hours had gone by without any sleep. When I woke up, I was at home. Now I'm two hours away in the middle of nowhere. Being this far from home, and even how far I was from the nearest hospital, I grew weary. I knew that I wouldn't be able to access the psychiatric care I clearly needed.
Things weren't looking good this morning. I started becoming unwell, with anxiety, and my freeze would keep kicking in. I had no idea what was going on and why the fuck I couldn't eat or sleep at all.
This all pissed me off because I had fought a long battle of suffering and trying to pull my shit together for 8 months so that I could get into rehab again, and of course, it backfired on me.
To fill you in on those eight months between June and February, I was put on long-term disability with the condition that I go to rehab to maintain my job, which I already had plans on doing anyway. I found a rehab with lots of praise across my country, but the waiting list was 3 months long. So I was stuck at home on the rural back roads and spent all my time living a very sedentary lifestyle until I got offered a bed. When I got there, however, I quickly felt like I was in a labour camp rather than a drug rehab.
I hated every day of the 8 weeks I spent there because of the sheer overexertion and exhaustion due to the intensity of the rehab. We worked from 6am until 9 or 10:30pm every single day, with very little free time. Half of the clients at the place were on parole conditions, and the other half were what we called "health beds." I wasn't on parole, nor have I ever served jail time, and when I asked the parolees, every single one of them told me the exact same thing. They all said, "This program is far harder than jail," and "I wanna go back to prison." Keep in mind some of these guys came from medium security and witnessed horrible things, which I won't elaborate on.
After those 8 weeks, I had enough. I was withdrawing off Diazepam because the psychiatrist at that rehab tapered me down way too fast. I was also suffering from akathisia when I had to start an antipsychotic because I had an episode of paranoid psychosis due to the exhaustion combined with the entire dynamic of the program. They were making me wait forever to get the meds I needed for the akathesia, and they let me continue to withdraw even though I visited the hospital and they faxed them a prescription for benztropine and re-prescribed Diazepam. I had enough of their bullshit, and so I left.
My parents were furious that I quit, but I was determined to find a better rehab, one that didn't practice slavery and intentional sleep deprivation as their entire philosophy, and 3 months later, I ended up in the rehab where this story began.
I was incredibly frustrated after being awake for 48 hours straight. It felt like the last 8 months had flashed before my eyes. I saw all the misery, hopelessness, grief and loss that my addiction had caused over the years. Despite all the effort I had put into overcoming it, everything seemed to be coming together, and my dad had commented on how stable I seemed; suddenly, I found myself in crisis.
On morning two, I wasn't fucking around. No Foquest, no relaxing with my eyes closed, and I powered through the day. It wasn't enough, though, because all night, I still hadn't gotten even a little half sleep in; I was fully conscious the whole time.
At this point, I proposed I go to the emergency room so I could speak to a psychiatrist fast, which is something I've had to do several times, but I was met with discouragement by my counsellor. He kept saying, "This is just a part of recovery." Then I refuted him by saying, "I haven't been smoking crack for 8 months. This isn't detox! This is my medication causing a crisis". I had enough of how oblivious he was, so I walked away from that conversation because he made me feel guilty for even asking such a thing, even though it was the best option, and I should've followed my gut instinct.
My mind was so slow because of the time disorientation, and I became very compulsive. I was extremely uncomfortable living in my own skin, and my body would go into its freeze instinct. For example, I got into my room and had snowy boots, and I didn't want to track snow into my room, so I just froze and stood there staring into space, lost in my thoughts. It took me 30 minutes to remove my boots and rigidly tip-toe into bed.
One of the rules of the rehab I was at was that you cannot refuse meds, but suddenly, In the blink of an eye, I remembered my Doctor's words when he increased the Duloxetine from 30 to 60. He said, "I'm gonna give you two 30mg capsules, but if anything bad happens, return to one capsule."
At that moment, I was in line to get my meds, and I realized that I had factored out everything. It was very unusual for me to have appetite suppression to this extreme, and if the weed withdrawal was the sole problem, I would've gotten poor sleep or not enough. It'd be very unlikely to have resulted in complete insomnia for three days straight, maybe one, but I'd end up crashing the next night. I did factor in the new environment, but only for the first night. Another indication that I had was I had an uncontrollable urge to crack my neck constantly, which Is a side effect I've had from other antidepressants and indicates the dose is too high or something adverse is happening.
I told the nurse I was choosing to lower my dose without their permission, and she vaguely warned me, saying, "Well, part of being in this program is taking your meds." I just shrugged it off, not understanding what she was eluding, but I wasn't gonna go through this torture any longer. This was on a Friday, so all the weekday staff in charge of the rehab left, and the weekend staff were there until Tuesday because it was a long weekend.
On the fourth night, I anticipated a repeat of the same routine, and despite my efforts, I couldn't fall asleep; instead, I felt as if I were hypomanic because I felt mental energy that kept my mind alert, but the fatigue was getting to me, and I ended up falling asleep at like 5 am only to be loudly awoken by the P-A speaker in my room gave us a wake-up call at 6 am. And when I woke from this, I was sure as hell pissed off because I felt so much worse than before, but the good thing was it was the weekend which meant free time all day. After the fucking megaphone in my room awoke me into shock, I stumbled out of bed, staggering, not so far as tripping over my feet yet, but needless to say, things were getting terrible given that in 4 days, I had slept 1 out of the other 95 hours. This morning at breakfast, I confirmed my theory that Duloxetine was causing these side effects because I began eating more and slowly regained my appetite.
So, on day 4, I was losing myself after that 1-hour nap that destroyed me. But the straw that broke the camel's back was a song I heard coming from the next room over, and I had the worst panic attack of my life because it was a song that my evil ex-girlfriend involved in my last relapse, would play while we smoked crack together so, of course, it caused flashbacks.
At this point, I had no composure left; I ran down the hall, went outside and started hitting my head off a brick wall until it bled. I was stopped in the act, and the staff had to call the ambulance.
I knew I was the most isolated hospital I'd ever been to when I arrived, and they told me they literally had no psychiatrists. Eventually, after waiting for a doctor, I had to explain everything all over again because the ambulance driver didn't hand off any of the info I had given them in the ambulance, and I almost didn't get any help. The nurse walked in and said, "How can I help you?" I was in shock and didn't realize yet that she didn't know anything about me, but even after I explained that I'd been awake for 4 days straight because of a medication, she just looked at me and said, "Well, you seem fine to me" This made me really angry at the world. She just thought I was high since she knew I had addiction issues, but after talking with her and the Doctor, I said, "It seems as if you guys think I'm just high." They both just looked at each other, and from then on, I could tell they believed me. We talked, and I suggested we add 25mg of Seroquel, so the Doctor sent me back to the rehab with a week's worth in a bottle.
After I got back to the rehab, it was time for bed again, and thankfully, I got some sleep that night. However, the sleep wasn't restful enough, so I was still loopy and anxious. However, I continuously regained my appetite, which made me feel better.
The following 2 nights, I managed to sleep through, and my eating habits were much more natural than before. I was starting to think my sleep was returning to normal. I began feeling like everything would be okay, but when I got up Tuesday morning after 7 days of torture, I thought I had suffered enough. I was wrong because the staff in charge returned, and they concluded that I needed to be medically discharged from the rehab, and I had 15 minutes to gather my shit and leave.
I was under the impression I could reapply when I got home. When I called, the intake coordinator said I had to wait three months before reapplying.
After hearing this, I felt hopeless, so I started digging. I discovered that I could call the clinical director of the rehab and make a formal complaint. So I called her up, and after I explained how much I wanted to return, she decided that all I would need to reapply would be a note from my Doctor explaining that I am medically stable on my meds. I was thrilled to hear this, and furthermore, I didn't have any problems sleeping anymore, so I was confident that I'd get the letter I needed to return.
When I called my Doctor, I didn't need Seroquel anymore because my sleep had returned to normal. I was having a lot of agitation and discomfort, so my Doctor switched me from Diazepam to clonazepam to give me the best opportunity for success upon returning to rehab.
I don't remember the following 9 days after, But on March 2nd, it hit me again and I could no longer sleep without medication, nor could I eat anything without forcing myself. In a sleep-deprived state the next day, I made the poor decision to go into my parent's closet, where they hid my medication and stole fifteen 10mg Diazepams, so that night, I took 90mg just so I could sleep.
The next night rolled around, and I took 60mg and couldn't sleep at all. My grandfather lives next door and has always been helpful to me when I have insomnia. He sometimes would give me 15mg of oxazepam. So I went home and took it, and just sat there and still couldn't sleep. In a drunken state from all the benzos, I lost my inhibitions, had enough of the insomnia, and was ready to die for the first time in my life.
I decided I was ready and attempted to gulp back all my pills, knowing I would end up in a coma or dead. I found over 2 months' worth of pregabalin; I take 600 per day, so there were approximately 35 grams. There were also about 150mg of Diazepam that hadn't been returned to the pharmacy, a month's worth of clonazepam, so about 45mg, I had probably 500mg of Methylphenidate and maybe 100mg of Zolpidem and some other stuff I can't remember.
I had to get past my mom first because she was in the way of the closet, so I walked by casually, grabbed the bag and tried to get past her. She gripped the bag, and I didn't want to be aggressive with my mom, so I let go. She was traumatized by my behaviour and quickly dialled 911. I was so remorseful for what I did to my mom, so I jumped over the railing down a flight of stairs but landed on my 1 foot and just fell up the stairs, and was barely injured.
When I got to the hospital, they ended up giving me 50mg of Seroquel, and somehow, I managed to fall asleep. When I woke up, they contacted my parents, and they didn't want me to come home and needed a break, so I went directly to a crisis centre from the hospital.
The centre I was in was for people at risk of homelessness or just for crisis support. It's a nice house with a beautiful kitchen. I could even bring my nicotine vape with me. They also had lock boxes for people to store their drugs in; the only rule was you had to leave the property to get high, and you could come back tweaking balls if you wanted to. When I arrived, I was so drugged up from all the benzos that I stumbled around everywhere and had to use the elevator.
The first night was pretty easy, even though I didn't sleep because I could vape outside whenever I wanted, and other people were awake all night that I could talk to. This made it much easier to remain calm since I wasn't confined to my room this time. My Doctor was away for the week, so out of the kindness and love in my dad's heart, he took me to a walk-in clinic to get some trazodone. The clinic doctor only gave me 25mg, which was not nearly enough because, by this point, my sleep threshold was substantially higher. That night, I combined it with 2.5mg of Clonazepam and Zolpidem, but it was useless, and I stayed awake.
On Night three at the centre, I managed to get 3 hours of broken-up sleep from 6am to 9am. I was sleeping so lightly that I had a hypnagogic hallucination, which is a type of hallucination where you're on the cusp of waking up. It felt like I was on DMT for a couple seconds, and then I woke up.
I had enough; I was skeptical but decided to stop taking the Cymbalta because I was living on protein shakes and could barely eat a small yogurt; I was sitting at the table crying because I just wanted to eat.
The environment I was in was very triggering for me, especially since I was a 20 minute walk away from my dealer, and I could return back to the centre when I was done. So this is where the stupidity began, and I gave in even after three days of barely sleeping. And went to grab a 70-piece of crack.
Even though the cops don't care about drug users in my city, and people can be spotted smoking drugs all over the place, I still felt paranoid about where I was smoking up. Whenever I don't have a place to use safely, I walk around downtown looking for alleyways or trying to find tents in the park where the homeless live. This time, I wanted to be more stealthy, so I climbed up this mountain in my city with a stairway about 100 or so steps tall. As I walked up the stairs, my legs were trembling, and I could barely descend the steps without collapsing.
When I got back to the centre safely, I was tweaking and could barely compose myself enough to communicate, and my fine motor function was fucked that I needed help opening the pills I took to calm down.
Needless to say, because of my stupidity, I didn't deserve to sleep that night, but it's just unfortunate the hospital would refer me to such a triggering environment right after I left rehab early.
This facility is not allowed to stop people from taking extra meds; you could overdose if you wanted to, and there's nothing they can do other than call an ambulance. Luckily for me, my dad only left me with the amount of medication I needed. That night, 75mg of Trazodone must have provided me with some sleep, I honestly can't remember, but after 2 days off the Duloxetine, I regained my ability to eat again, and I was eating like a champ. I had lost about 10lbs, and I gained it back quickly.
The last night I was there, I didn't get any sleep again, but luckily, someone was awake to keep me company. He had some good weed, and the staff let us roll up in the front room. Then we could walk across the road and smoke up on the sidewalk, and we did that all night until I was ready to go and my parents allowed me to come back home. I ended up crashing at 4pm off 50mg of Trazodone for 5 hours, and when I woke up, I took 100mg of Seroquel and crashed again and woke up 13 hours later.
The sleepless nights were getting to be too much, and I was having suicidal Ideation, so I bit the bullet and decided to drive an hour away to the best mental health hospital in all of my country. My dad and I were worried that I wouldn't get admitted, but they did because of my suicidality.
The Doctor gave me 200mg of Trazodone for my first night, and I just became a complete zombie and laid there in bed for 3 hours, but then I got up, and I could barely even muster up a word and looked like I was slumped, told a staff member I was trying to look for ways to kill myself so they gave me Ativan to fall asleep. I didn't want to take it because my benzo tolerance had already skyrocketed, but I succumbed, and it actually worked.
Every weekday, the clients all got to speak to a psychiatrist, and when we were talking, even the psychiatrist agreed that what was going on was perplexing, so we just kept throwing sleeping meds at me to see what worked.
One night, I was feeling so suicidal that I left my room and started hitting my head on the concrete, and the hospital had to announce a code white, which is the code used for patients deemed "dangerous." The only person I was a danger to was myself. I kept punching myself in the head, and they called the intensive care unit to bring a restraint bed and told me If I didn't take Ativan and Loxapine, they were gonna strap me down and give it to me intravenously.
I took the pills, so the restraint bed was brought back over to the intensive care unit, but a staff member had to be in my room that night until I woke up. On Friday, the psychiatrist and I finalized my medication regimen, and he suggested that Monday would be a good day to leave. I was so eager to go on Monday that I didn't tell him I barely slept that night.
I'm thankful I went, though; I wouldn't dare go to the psych ward in my own city because I've been locked in a foam room with a mattress on the ground, no pillow, a camera facing the toilet, and nobody came to talk to me for 5 days people screaming all night in the hallway. I hated those pigs, so every time I had to piss, I did it on the floor beside the toilet so the camera couldn't watch me, and I threw all my food waste on the floor. I stuffed my blanket in the toilet bowl when I was about to leave. They deserved it, and I'm very proud I did so.
I travelled to the mental health hospital I went to because it's much more humane. Everyone gets their own room and bathroom with a shower. They have programs to go to throughout the week and a big common room with a TV and tables and chairs where I spent most of my time colouring with the friends I acquired.
It's been about 3 weeks since I was discharged from the hospital, and I have had problems sleeping every night since. I've constantly bothered my Doctor with emails and calls to the office to change meds, but I'm finally at the point now where I'm on the waiting list to get back into the rehab I was discharged from, and I slept the whole night last night which I haven't done since the very beginning of this story.
I thought this story would end on a sad note, but things are looking up for me. If I continue to sleep every night, I'll be all set to go as soon as they call me.
In the end, to sleep, I'm taking 200mg of Seroquel, which is insane to me because, before the start of the story, I was taking 8x less than what helped me before this story began. I'm also now taking mirtazapine and Davigo for sleep, and I didn't need any of these meds before this all started. This is further proof to me that Duloxetine caused all this stuff to happen in my life, and here I am 2 months later, still recovering.
EDIT**** I included a citation to prove the mechanism of action of cocaine in relation to antidepressants

His journey began and ended in Rosewood.
After acquiring food, medical supplies, guns, ammo, multiple fridges, a microwave, multiple water dispenser, books, not one but TWO ambulance vans full of supplies, hell even a coffee maker.. Rickey fell to the zombies.
His brother, D-man came from their home base in Riverside to Rosewood to help Rickey transport the two vans. They made a quick stop at the book store to gather the last of the books before heading out. Next door was the dr’s office. Rickey went in to get the last of the medical supplies…. He never made it out…
In the dr’s office alone Rickey slew 20 zombies. But they just kept coming. He tried to make a run for it but the swarm was coming from the back door. He ran to the front door. They had already busted down the door and like a horrible flood, the horde began climbing through the windows.
Rickey died with his back against the wall, axe in hand. In 3 days and 3 nights he slew 211 Z’s. The multiplayer run lives on through your sacrifice. Red-Neck Rickey Bobby, you will not be forgotten.
(Wish i had footage)