Don't Call Me Hero by Eliza Lentzski Page B

flashing lights, knowing they could trigger unpleasant memories, and read a book by flashlight.
    The guys on base used to play war-simulation video games between assignments. I never understood it. I got enough of that on a daily basis without spending my free time engaged in gunfire, too. To pass the time I read books, fiction mostly. I wasn’t a great reader in high school, but the stories became my escape from the desert—like something straight out of Reading Rainbow .
    A female dispatcher’s voice came over the radio. “E-Three, this is Central. What’s your twenty?”
    “Central, this is E-Three,” I responded. I peered through the darkness for street signs at the closest intersection. “My twenty is First and Main.”
    “E-Three, I’ve got a disabled vehicle near Jefferson and Cook. Code 1.”
    “10-4, Central. Be advised E-Three is en-route.”
    I bent the top corner of the page I had been reading and tossed my book into the glove compartment.
    The streets were wet with an inch or so of standing water, and the water level rose the closer I drove to my destination. I slowed the patrol car to a slow crawl when I came upon a dark luxury vehicle parked on the side of the road. The headlights were on and the wipers swished back and forth.
    I pulled my vehicle off to the opposite side of the street where the standing water was less deep. “Of all the crumby nights,” I grumbled to myself as I unfastened my seatbelt.
    I made the call to dispatch to let them know I’d reached the disabled vehicle. I hopped out of the squad car and, burying my head into the lapel of my jacket, I rushed over to the passenger side window of the black Mercedes. When I reached the car, I realized I knew the driver. Intimately.
    “What the hell are you doing out here?”
    The woman sitting inside the car pressed her lips together, but she didn’t respond.
    “I’d suggest finding a different place to park, Madam Prosecutor,” I yelled through the closed window. “I don’t trust that river if the rain keeps this up.”
    The window lowered. “I’m not parked here on purpose, Detective,” Julia snapped. “I certainly know better than to park my car by a swollen river.”
    “Oh.” My hair was now plastered to my face. “Then what are you doing out here?” I yelled over the rain.
    Julia leaned closer to the open window. “I was on my way home …” She trailed off and frowned. “Detective, get in the car.”
    “Why?”
    “Because in case you haven’t noticed, dear, we’re in the middle of a monsoon.”
    I heard the power locks pop open. Normally I would have insisted I was fine where I was, but the rain continued to fall down in thick, unending sheets. Self-preservation won over my stubborn pride. I yanked the front passenger door open and slid inside, slamming the door closed behind me.
    “Mind the leather,” Julia sniffed, no doubt regretting inviting my soggy body into her luxury vehicle.
    “So you were just about to tell me why on earth you’re out this late, and why you’re parked on the side of the road.”
    “I don’t have the luxury of working banker hours, Detective. I was in court for most of the day, and I still had work to do afterwards. I was just driving home when I drove through what I thought was a mud puddle; it turned out to be a lake,” she said sourly. “I didn’t get very far until my engine died.”
    “My car works. I’ll drive you home.”
    “You really expect me to get out of my car in this weather?” Julia said dully. She gripped the steering wheel tighter and continued to stare straight ahead. The inside of the windshield was starting to fog up.
    “It’s just rain . I don’t imagine you’ll melt.”
    Julia continued to sit, immobile in her vehicle, petulant like a pouting child.
    I made an audibly frustrated noise. I became all arms and elbows as I tried to peel off my damp jacket. The task was made more difficult in the confines of the car.
    “What are you doing?” Julia