| OCR Text |
Show Twisters . . . 76 "Nine, zero, eight, four . . . nine, zero, eight, four . . . reporting injury affecting my eyesight . . . returning to headquarters assisted by minor male passenger." Minor male passenger! That's me, Dan Hatch! I was having chills on top of chills. He repeated it once more, then we switched places. He was really in trouble, I could tell, but he was still thinking safety. He got the flashers going before I started and put the siren on again to give us a clear path. "We'll be approaching from the north now," he shouted, "so turn left here, go one block to Pine, then head south." "Okay," I answered. I moved the gear shift into drive, eased my foot off the brake. My hands were shaking like anything, but we started up smooth as syrup. "Keep her under the speed limit, Pal," was the only instruction he had to give me. I wished with all my heart that Dad could see me driving that old police car down Pine street to the station house. Next to wanting to see him, I wanted him to see me. Mom would have keeled over. Not Dad. He and I . . . we were born on wheels, he once told me. Even with the rain and glass spitting into my face, driving came as natural to me that night as breathing. The only embarrassing part was hitting the curb too hard when we parked there in front of the orangey-brick Public Safety Center. |
