Ramola says Natalie’s name and variations of relax and calm down and it’s all right as she gently pulls her away from the expressionless men. The teens break into giggles, and why not? The whole world has gone mad.
The red truck pulls up directly behind the two men. A bearded driver steps out and says, “Hey, nice day for a bike ride, right?” and laughs at his own non-joke. He’s a solidly built, early middle-aged white man, of less-than-average height, with a head of coarse hair worn short, coming to a widow’s peak. Distinct patches of white form an archipelago in the sea of his light-brown hair. He wears tan carpenter pants, a blue jean jacket buttoned up to the neck, work gloves, and black boots. Coffee-stained teeth mushroom out of a charismatic smile; his cheeks hide his eyes. “I’m Dan, and—so, yeah, what’s going on? I gotta say you make an, um, unexpected group. What are you guys doing out here?” He steps between the men in camo and stuffs his hands into his front pockets. A move, Ramola assumes, supposed to communicate Aw shucks, I’m harmless and I’m in charge.
Ramola starts over. “I’m Dr. Ramola Sherman. We desperately need help and we don’t have time—”
The Tree interrupts, “Do you hear her?”
The second camo guy says, “Looks like we already have foreign government interference—”
Ramola says, “For fuck’s sake, that’s it. Natalie, back on the bike. Come on.” She walks behind Josh’s bike and flails a hand in the direction of the other men. “You daft bellends stay out of our way.”
The camo duo mumble vague none-shall-pass threats, which are less threatening as they sidle and shrink away from Ramola and toward the pickup truck.
Dan taps each man’s shoulder, and says, “Okay, Richard, okay. Stanley. Hey, let’s calm down.” His “calm” has no l in it, and is replaced with an ah. His Boston accent is so pronounced, like Josh’s British accent attempt, it sounds faked.
Josh says, “Dick and Stan. Who will ever forget them?”
Luis laughs. “Ooh, let me guess which one is Stanley.”
The Tree snarls a fuck-you, though it is not clear if his name is Stanley. Before either teen can guess as much, Ramola makes one final attempt to ask for help. A potential ride to the clinic is only a few feet away.
“I am a doctor at Norwood Pediatrics. Natalie and I were in an ambulance on our way to the Ames Clinic. A car blindsided us about a mile back. We were not injured. The same cannot be said for the other driver. Our ambulance is no longer drivable, we have not been able to get through to emergency services on our phones, and no new ambulance has been sent for us. These two young men witnessed the accident and are kindly helping transport us to the clinic so that Natalie and her child can be tended to properly.” As she speaks she walks toward Dan and the two men. “Will you give us a ride to the clinic? It’s in Five Corners, less than a mile away. We’d be eternally grateful and you’ll be back doing whatever it is you’re doing in no time at all.”
Calls of “What’s going on?” and “You guys all set?” from the other men in their group (five in total) who mass ten to twenty yards behind the truck. Two men wear dark-colored fleece vests over tan button-down shirts with large orange patches on the left sleeve. They are standing too far away for Ramola to read the script on the patches. They carry long, skinny poles with some sort of corded loops at the ends. Unlike Richard and Stanley in camo, two of the remaining men wear typical northeast suburbanite male autumnal garb, designer fleeces and flannels, and they carry shovels. One short, balding man swims in a too-big New England Patriots varsity-style jacket and carries a small-caliber hunting rifle.
Dan turns and holds a thumbs-up and then waves to the group behind him. He says to Ramola, “Oh, okay, yeah. You know that clinic isn’t very big. It’s not like a full hospital. Is it even open, functional? I don’t know. We haven’t gone by there, so I don’t know. But yeah, of course. I’ll give you a ride.”
Richard and Stanley sigh, spin away, and toss up their hands, generally reacting like spoiled brats whose parents won’t buy them a candy bar at the grocery store.
Dan ignores them. He cups his hands around his mouth and shouts to the other men behind them, “Go ahead! You can keep knocking!” The other men disperse into two groups, one tan-shirted man with each group, walking up driveways on opposite sides of Bay Road. The man with the rifle remains behind and mills about in the middle of the street.
Dan says, “It’s Natalie, right? You can ride in the cab with me. The rest of you can sit in the truck bed if you want.”
Josh says, “Hell yeah. You’ll be getting us closer to home.”
“Yeah, we’re done out here,” says Luis.
Ramola thanks Dan, takes Natalie’s hand, and leads her between the silently apoplectic camo pair. As they scoot around to the passenger side, Natalie whispers into Ramola’s ear, “What’s in the trailer? Can’t be good.” It wasn’t visible until they walked around the front grille, but there’s a small rectangular, two-wheeled trailer hitched to the truck. Its four side panels are metal, painted black, and maybe two feet in height. A large green drop cloth is draped over whatever its contents may be.
Ramola rises up on her tiptoes but only sees more of the lumpy canvas. “I don’t know.” Questions of what these men are doing and why they are knocking on the doors of local homes are neon warning signs flashing in her head, but she isn’t going to ask them. All
