Along about 5:30 today, whilst most of the Front Range was busy grumbling about traffic or bills or who forgot to take out the trash, I walked down the main ER hallway to the nurses' station to turn in a chart. (A walk I make about 500 times in an average shift.) There happened to be a slightly larger than usual contingent of police officers gathered near the security post, and at that instant, I heard "He's here!!" and the officers made for the ambulance bay. "Get a gurney!" I hear so I glove up and help wheel a gurney outside to the valet parking drop-off as I hear snippets of shouted conversation "GSW!" "Shot in the belly" "POV" (civvy-speak for private-owned vehicle, meaning a non-ambulance patient). Get up the little hill to the driveway and they're already loading a guy onto an ambulance pram (easier for transport, and masterfully handled by my stud-pals Matt and Stiffy. ). It was one of those traumas that moves fast and where the doctor comes out of the room wiping blood off his face... and sounds like the poor unfortunate gent will live, albeit in a wheelchair and essentially useless from the waist down. Lesson of the day: don't piss off people with guns. My lesson of the day: Damn, I love my job.