It was supposed to be our last call of the 24-hour shift.

Neither of us thought it could be the last call of our lives.

Zach and I were eating when we got the call from Dispatch.

3320. Please head to 543 Shelton Road for a potential heart attack call.

She said over the radio, we looked at each other.

Shelton Road? I said, where the hell is that?

Zach shook his head before telling Dispatch we were on our way.

He wrapped his greasy burger up, flipped on the lights and siren,

and maneuvered out of the fast food restaurants parking lot.

Meanwhile, in the passenger seat, I was scarfing down the rest of my burger,

knowing it would be cold later if I didn't finish it now.

There's nothing worse than a cold, soggy burger.

As I ate with one hand, I punched the address into the ambulance's computer.

It was rare that we got a call in a road we didn't recognize.

Both Zach and I had been working these streets for nearly 10 years,

and I couldn't ever remember a call on any Shelton Road.

As the map pulled up on the screen, Zach looked at it.

Huh, he said.

Strange. I thought that whole area was abandoned.

I chewed the rest of my burger before answering.

What do you mean? Like an abandoned neighborhood?

Yeah, he said. It's all fenced off in everything.

...