With his blond hair flopping in his eyes, Jason looked like an overgrown kid of fourteen. Galen's vitals (Rob right beside him, holding the First In Bag with its airway management gear and cardiac meds) had disappeared. The gravely competent professional who had taken Mr. His wife was hovering over him, convinced he was going to punch out at any second. They had found him lying on the sofa in what rich folks no doubt called 'the great room,' a beached whale of a man in blue silk pajamas. The run from which they were now returning had been to one of the McMansions in Sugar Heights, where a man named Harvey Galen had called 911 complaining of terrible chest pains. 'After the object lesson we just had in what that shit can do?' 'We shall be fed! God bless capitalism! Pull in, pull in!'

Rob had worked with any number of paramedics over his fifteen years as an EMT, and Jace Rapsis was the best: easygoing when nothing was happening, unflappable and sharply focused when everything was happening at once. 'The Golden Tits of America!' Jason Rapsis cried from the shotgun seat. Not far up ahead, two unmistakable yellow arches rose from the murk. Rob clicked the wiper control from intermittent to slow. A fine cold drizzle had begun to fall through it, just to add to the fun. The fog was heavy and smelled of the nearby not-so-great Great Lake. Not that this daybreak would be up to much even when it finally got rolling call it dawn with a hangover. It seemed to him that whoever thought that one up really got hold of something, because it was darker than a woodchuck's asshole this morning, and dawn wasn't far away. This elderly chestnut occurred to Rob Martin as the ambulance he drove rolled slowly along Upper Marlborough Street toward home base, which was Firehouse 3. Sign up for our newsletter and receive special offers, access to bonus content, and info on the latest new releases and other great eBooks from Scribner and Simon & Schuster. Thank you for downloading this Scribner eBook.

End of watch by stephen king