The address was straightforward enough – until we got in the neighborhood. The streets curved around and the numerics visible all were for the cross street. We had been told the patient would meet us in the parking lot, then updated information from MedComm was that he was advised to wait in his apartment. Inquiring for an apartment number, we were told the dispatcher would call back to find out. Updated information? The subject was indeed waiting in the parking lot; we were to go to the rear of the building. Finding the alley, we rolled slowly along, our right flood lights illuminating the successive row of apartment buildings. The problem with this method was that the rear of apartment buildings – including these – often does not have numerics displayed. We’d rolled along behind half a dozen when the radio came to life again. “301, caller is on the line again, advises you to come out of alley, take a left and you will see him outside.” We acknowledge, follow directions and emerge from the alley to find a front light across the street furiously winking on, off, on and off again. I flick our floods on and off in acknowledgement but the furious winking does not subside. Driving up alongside the curb directly in front of the door where the light lives does not make it stop, either. Directly beneath the light, cast by turns into stark relief and pitch blackness in paroxysms of the continuing on, off – is our caller. I roll my window down and he barks with extreme agitation, “I said to tell ya, go around back! AROUND BACK!” “Yes, sir, we…..” “GO AROUND BACK!” “yes, sir.”

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