Mr. Fahrenheit by T. Michael Martin

coming closer . And they’re not just cop sirens.
    â€œThere’re fire trucks up there,” Benji said. “And ambulances. The ones the city got last year, I think?”
    He was right. The RustRocket rounded the bend and the road ahead was filled with motion and light; police cruisers and fire trucks and ambulances formed a barricade that blocked the road.
    â€œOh, Gaaaawd,” Zeeko moaned.
    â€œZeek, dear, please don’t you dare throw up in my car.”
    â€œNo, you guys, I actually think we’re okay,” Benji said. “Ellie, just slow down a little.” She glanced over. “You’re speeding.”
    She replied with a look that said, Right, because obviouslygetting a ticket is the hugest of our concerns right now.
    Parallel lines of safety flares hissed along the sides of the road. As the Rocket approached the barricade, Benji counted a half-dozen police cars, and a pair each of fire trucks and ambulances.
    The emergency responders didn’t even pay attention to the Rocket’s arrival: All the firemen and deputies were running toward something in the forest to the left, though Benji couldn’t see what.
    â€œHoly Jesus, this isn’t for us,” Ellie said shakily over the wail of the sirens. She brought the Rocket to a stop at the sawhorses that formed the barricade.
    Benji’s eyes adjusted to the beachhead of light. He spotted a break in the treeline on the roadside to the left, and he realized the emergency workers hadn’t actually been running into the forest. The break was the entrance road to Deedan’s Eden, an organic dairy farm run by a hippie-ish guy. Everyone at school sort of suspected he also grew organic marijuana. Maybe this was a police raid?
    Ellie gasped. “Is that a plane crash ?”
    Benji’s stomach jolted. Ellie was right: A small, single-propeller plane had crashed down there in the middle of the farm’s pasture. He could see the trail the unplanned touchdown had ripped into the soil, an erratic line punctuated by mangled metal and pools of fire. The cockpit seemed mostly intact, though it looked like a wing had been torn off. A dozen first responders swarmed around the plane, so he couldn’t get a clear view.
    â€œWhat’re they saying?” Ellie said, mostly to herself. She tried to hand-crank her window down but it got stuck. She got out of the Rocket; Benji did the same. Over the sirens, they could hear overlapping shouts from the field.
    â€œâ€”stretcher, bring— ”
    â€œ —no good— ”
    â€œ —blood, Dorinda, get those gloves!— ”
    Two medics lifted a figure out of the wreckage and onto a stretcher that they loaded into the ambulance. A moment later, the ambulance’s flashers ignited (“In the trade, we call flashers ‘gumballs,’” Papaw had once said). Siren keening, the ambulance peeled out toward Bedford Falls.
    â€œYour grandpa, Benji,” Ellie said, hurrying back to the Rocket.
    Papaw’s familiar silhouette strode out of all the lights, hands on his hips. He was speaking with this sweet deputy named Wally, who always let Benji eat the Peanut M&M’s he kept on his desk at the station. Before Benji could get back into the Rocket, Papaw spotted him.
    â€œBenjamin?” he said, walking toward him. Because of the blockade’s backlight, Benji couldn’t see Papaw’s face, but he didn’t sound super thrilled. “What exactly in the hell’re you doin’ out here?”
    â€œHi, Sheriff!” This from Ellie, who abandoned her attempt to vanish into the Rocket and stepped out from behind Benji.
    Papaw looked surprised to see her. He’d always liked Ellie. The first time he met her, when Benji was in middle school, she’d complimented him on the six-shooter he carried in his gunbelt, telling him that .357s were her favorite, too.
    Now, why would a pretty young lady like you be interested in