My shoulders sagged a bit as I entered the Pioneer Patrol Building on the west side of the city. My time with the bike squad was over. I was pushed out a rotation early. The experience had been awesome, the best part of my career as far as camaraderie went, but it had to end sometime. Now I was back to patrol.

I liked patrol, I told myself, and nodded. This isn’t a bad thing, just a temporary thing. A normal stepping stone in my career. The voice of my police academy sergeant interrupted my thoughts. “You want to be stuck in patrol your whole career? You sorry bunch of losers. Shapeup or that’ll be where you end up. Forever. You’ll never go anywhere but patrol if you keep screwing around!”

Patrol: the trenches of police work; land of new officers; the preferred assignment for those who wanted to do real police work; the limbo between specialty positions; the career graveyard for those blacklisted by upper administration. I wondered if I was on that administrative blacklist. I’d certainly ruffled some tail feathers. No, I thought as I straightened, lifting my chin. Attitude is the small thing that makes the big difference.

I pulled a pen from my shirt pocket and studied the openings available to me, laid out in simple papers lists on a table where each Sergeant had left them for sign-ups. There weren’t many choices. I found the shift I needed, placed the tip of my pen to an open slot, and froze. Sergeant Winn.

I hung my head and squeezed my eyes shut, thinking, Oh, no. Not him. I’d never worked for Winn, but I’d heard plenty of rumors. If I wanted the shift with the schedule that best fit my needs, then this was the only option. I signed my name and headed home.

When I arrived home that night, I found my wife writhing on the couch, teeth gritted, eyes squeezed shut, and tears rolling down her cheeks. My heart leapt; terror wound my muscles tight. I rushed to her. Had there been an accident with one of our kids? We had two girls and a boy and Stacey was pregnant with our fourth, another girl. “Babe,” I said, and took a knee beside her, “what’s the matter?” Stacey opened her eyes. Her lips twisted. A sob escaped. Please, I thought, let the baby be okay. I ran a hand through her hair and searched for something comforting to say.

“I don’t know what’s wrong,” she finally said, sniffling. “It’s my back. The pain comes and goes.” “Should I take you to the hospital?” Stacey winced, thought it over, then shook her head. “Not yet. I think it’s getting better.”
“Is it…I don’t know, like a really bad pregnancy cramp?” She shook her head. “This is different. I don’t know what it is.” “Maybe you threw your back out?” I said. “Pulled a muscle? Pinched nerve?” Stacey shrugged. “Could be.” I kissed her forehead, which left a sweat-salty taste on my lips. “Go change out of your uniform,” Stacey said. “I’ll be okay. The pain is already fading.” I nodded, rose, and rushed to our bedroom to change.

An hour later, Stacey was feeling much better, so we sat at the kitchen table for a late dinner of leftovers, the kids having fallen asleep before I arrived home. Around a mouthful of chicken, I said, “You’ll never guess who my only choice for sergeant was.” “No, I won’t guess. So tell me. Who?”“Sgt. Winn.” “You don’t sound happy about it.” I spread butter across half a roll. “I’ve never heard anything good about him.” “But you’ve never personally had him as a supervisor, right?” “No,” I said, “but someone whose judgment I trust told me that Winn is the type of guy who probably became a cop because he was bullied as a kid and is now power hungry, a big chip on his shoulder. Every time I hear Winn mentioned, it’s negative.”

Stacey frowned thoughtfully, then said, “Well, you should give him a chance.” I swallowed a bite of roll and gestured with the remaining piece. “You don’t understand, everybody says the same thing. No personality. A micro-manager. You cross him and he’ll destroy you.” Stacey lowered her fork, leaned closer, and said, “Eric, aren’t there some people in the department that don’t like you so much?” I stiffened and grimaced. “Like the cops who worked the rave at the Salt Palace–and that lieutenant, too?” “Yeah,” I said, “but–”

“And your last sergeant, the one who demanded a minimum number of misdemeanor arrests. Do you think he talks nicely about you behind your back?” I huffed. “Stacey–”

“No,” she said, “what they probably say about you isn’t true. So maybe what some people say about this new sergeant of yours is also not true.” “Okay, okay,” I said. “I’ll give him a chance.” Stacey nodded, smirked, and harpooned some green beans with her fork. As I continued eating in silence, I thought, If she’s wrong, it’s going to be a long three months before I can transfer out of there.

On my first day back on patrol, I skulked into the break room for my first fifteen-minute lineup briefing with Sgt. Winn. My gaze swept the other unfortunate souls who’d signed up for this shift. I noticed two familiar faces, a couple of guys from the academy, and a bit of the tension released from between my shoulders. I nodded at one of them.

The officer returned my nod and gave me a small, welcoming smile. Okay, I thought, I might at least have a good crew to work with.  Not wanting to draw Sgt. Winn’s attention, I chose a seat near the back of the room. I remained quiet despite lineup usually being a time to chat and joke around when not discussing police business and what was happening around the city. A moment after I sat, Sgt. Winn entered and commenced with a perfunctory roll-call. Everyone was present.

“The only thing I expect is that you handle your calls and watch each other’s backs,” Sgt. Winn said, his steady gaze cutting a line from one side of the room to the other. “Your number one priority is to get back to your families.”

Hmm, I thought, yeah, I’m sure that’s all you expect. I grimaced, wondering how I’d become so jaded so quickly. It happened to everyone in law enforcement to some degree or another. I just didn’t like it surfacing in me. Still, I couldn’t help but suspect Sgt. Winn of being one of those guys who promoted and drank the proverbial Kool-aid, a puppet of upper administration. However, Winn was in patrol and anyone stuck in patrol was usually there because they were the opposite of a puppet. They bucked the system, then paid the price.

That night, I went out and had a blast. I wondered why I ever left patrol.We went on hot calls, raced around the city…It was fantastic. Near the end of my shift, when I had a moment, I called Stacey to tell her about the first day back on patrol. She didn’t answer, which wasn’t like her, but I didn’t let it worry me. I’d just tell her all about it when she called back.

My next call from dispatch dealt with a runaway juvenile. I hadn’t dealt with a case like that in at least three years, so I refreshed my memory by looking up our policy, but the specifics of the case were such that policy didn’t help resolve the issue. I spoke to a couple officers on our squad, but their only advice was to run it by Sgt. Winn. I groaned and thought, No way. I had to make a quick decision and did what I thought was right given the circumstances. I wrote my report, reviewed it, then sent it to Sgt. Winn for approval.

Within the next hour, I noticed a message on my computer from Sgt. Winn that said: I need to talk to you. Meet me at the station. I closed my eyes, sank back against my car seat, and took a deep breath. I wondered what I’d done, or hadn’t done. I drove to the station. The closer I came, the stronger my sense of dread. I parked, took a few deep breaths, and went in to Sgt. Winn’s office. He stared at me, an interested but otherwise unreadable expression on his tight face.

Uncomfortable, I said, “Sergeant, you wanted to see me.” “Ya, I read your report and wanted to know why you did what you did?” I shrugged, shifted my feet, and explained my reasoning. I finished and Winn said, “Good job.” I blinked. He said, “It was a complicated situation, but that was the right thing to do. I just wanted to tell you that in person.” He smiled. I opened my mouth, but his smile kicked all thoughts out of my head. I had never seen him smile before, not even the few times that, over the years, I’d seen him in passing at the station, or training, or some other police-related event.

Finally, I nodded. I might’ve muttered, “Thank you,” or might have only thought that I did. Either way, I walked out of his office happy, but confused. My shift ended and I went home. The house was silent and dim, everyone asleep. In our bedroom, I removed my gear and changed from uniform to shorts and t-shirt. On my way to the bathroom to brush my teeth, I stopped by Stacey’s side of the bed, stooped and kissed her forehead. Her skin felt too warm. Frowning, I pressed my palm to her brow. Definitely running a fever. I shook her shoulder. Stacey moaned, but didn’t wake. I shook harder.
She muttered, but didn’t open her eyes.

I rushed to the medicine cabinet, snatched the infrared forehead thermometer, and returned. 103 degrees. I double-checked. Still 103. I grabbed my phone and called Stacey’s mom, who lived about twenty minutes away. “Bobbie, it’s Eric. Sorry about calling so late.” “Eric, what?”
“Can you come over? I think I need to take Stacey to the hospital.”“What’s wrong?” “I’m not sure. She’s having trouble waking up.” “Eric–”
“She’s got a fever. Can you watch the kids?” “Yes. Yes. I’ll be right over.”

I hung up. I turned towards the bathroom, then towards the bedroom door, then back to Stacey. I ran my hand through my hair and exhaled, trying to think.She was breathing, but lethargic and feverish. She wasn’t feeling well yesterday, that pain in her back. A muscle relaxer and some prescription painkillers? Did we even have any of that lying around the house? There’s no way should could have taken anything like that while she was pregnant, right? Had she gone to the doctor? She would’ve called me if she’d gone to the doctor’s office.

I glared at the clock. Come on, Grandma, I thought. Hurry. I shook Stacey and said, “Babe. Babe, come on. Wake up.” She groaned and her eyes rolled behind their lids. I shook her harder. I patted her cheek. “Honey. Stacey.” “Wha…?” Her eyelids fluttered. “Eric?” “Yeah, babe. It’s me. Hey, your mom’s coming over.” “My mom?” “I’m taking you to the hospital.” Her face twisted in pain. “It hurts.” “What hurts?” Stacey moaned. “Your back?” I said. She whimpered, closed her eyes tight, nodded, and curled into a ball.

I grabbed shoes for me, slippers for Stacey. I snatched a water bottle for each of us. I peeked out the window at the street. Headlights. Maybe Stacey’s mom? I rushed to the bedroom, grabbed Stacey beneath her arms, and hoisted.She leaned heavily against me. I supported most of her weight and muttered a prayer as I helped my wife to the car. The garage door opened and Stacey’s mom stopped, stared at us for a beat, then rushed forward. “Eric, what is it?”

I explained the situation in a breathless rush as I helped Stacey into the car. My hands shook so badly that I had to try three times before I could buckle her seat belt. Halfway to the hospital, I thought, Crap, I hope Grandma closed the garage door. I glanced sideways at Stacey, who moaned, teeth gritted, eyes squeezed shut. Who cares about the garage door? Why am I even thinking about the garage door?

We arrived at the hospital, luckily not hitting every red light along the way.I rushed around the car and pulled Stacey out. The emergency room seemed like a dream; everything in my peripheral was a blur, everything except Stacey going unnoticed. Questions about insurance. Blood pressure check. Temperature check. Questions.  Automatic answers. I felt much like a passenger in the back of my own head. Stacey went limp and almost fell. I caught her. Her head lolled against my arm. “Babe.” I patted her cheek. “Babe?” Stacey groaned. Nurses surrounded us and helped me get Stacey to her feet.

Her eyes fluttered open. She looked at me and said, “How long have we been here?” Stacey in a hospital gown, in a hospital bed, wheeled away for testing by hospital employees. Waiting. I jerked awake. I straightened, blinked, and looked around at the waiting room. I rubbed my face. I felt like dough, beaten, kneaded, smashed, and stretched flat by a rolling pin. “Mr. Moutsos.” I squinted at the woman in scrubs, a stethoscope around her neck. “Yeah, yeah, sorry. What?”

“The scan showed kidney stones blocking both ureters, with twenty-two more stones floating around. Nothing has been passing out of the kidneys and she now has double kidney infections. We need to do a surgery.” I nodded, mouth open. “Okay,” I said. “Surgery won’t be for a while. In the meantime, we’re working on the infection and getting her fever down.” “Surgery,” I said.

“Routine,” the doctor, or nurse, or whoever this was said. “Outpatient surgery. She’s doing okay. If you want to follow me, I’ll take you to her room.” I nodded and followed, feeling a bit more optimistic. The kidney blockage sounded bad, but at least they knew what was wrong and what to do. Stacey slept, hooked up to an IV and monitors. I slouched on the padded chair beside her bed, stuffed a pillow behind my head, and dozed off and on as hospital staff entering every now and then.Uncomfortable hours passed. Stacey mostly slept. When awake, I held her hand and tried to be reassuring, sometimes rubbing her shoulders or feet.

Later that morning, Stacey phoned her mom. The kids were in good hands. I left a message with my sergeant, dreading what he’d say about me not coming in for a few days. I hoped my message was at least coherent and not the ramblings of a sleep-deprived, worry-sick husband.  Eventually, they wheeled my wife and her hospital bed away for surgery. I couldn’t sleep, so I mostly paced, sometimes playing on my phone and sending a few messages to family, notifying them of what had happened. Our nurse, a lumpy, motherly woman in her later years, knocked and peeked in the room.

I perked up. “Mr. Moutsos, your wife is okay, but there’s been a complication with the baby. The anesthesia has worn off of your wife, but the baby isn’t waking up. We’ve started the process of admitting Stacey to the hospital and–” “Our baby,” I said, standing up. “Yes, Mr. Moutsos. Nothing to panic about. We’re just concerned and want that baby awake and kicking before we discharge your wife.”

“Can I see her?” “We’ll bring her back here in a bit. I’m not sure when, but not long. I’m sorry. Can I get you anything?” I shook my head and plopped down onto the edge of the chair, slumping, feeling dizzy with fatigue and shock. I prayed and prayed. I didn’t know what else I could do. About an hour later, Stacey rolled into the room on her hospital bed. I sprang to my feet, adrenaline cutting back some of the mental fog.“Stacey?”

My wife was pale, drowsy, and seemed inexplicably smaller than I remembered her being. Maybe it was all the blankets piled over her.Stacey opened her droopy eyelids; her lethargic gaze found me.“The baby?” I said. “You and the baby?” “We’re okay,” she said in a raspy voice. I exhaled and my shoulders slumped. “Thank goodness.” Some mentally muddled hours later, near sunset, we left the hospital, bottles of medications in hand.

My mom came over and Stacey’s mom went home. When I was finally able to lay down and crash, I slept for nine hours straight. The next day, I left Stacey and the kids with her parents and headed to work.

I rehearsed different things to say and what I’d say if Sgt. Winn said this or that. My stomach twirled queasily. What if he refused my requests to take certain days off? My parents and Stacey’s parents couldn’t be there every night I worked and Stacey was on bed rest, unable to help the kids, let alone help herself. She had stints in her ureters. I had to remember to tell Sgt. Winn there were stints and bedrest. That sounded urgent, a compelling reason to be home when I needed to be.

I fidgeted through roll call, hardly hearing what was said. When everyone on the squad had left, I remained behind to face Sgt. Winn.“Uh, sir, can I speak with you for a moment?” Sgt. Winn nodded. I cleared my throat and said, “Well, uh…” He waited, arms folded, studying my face. In a rush, I explained what was happening. He listened patiently, calmly, never interrupting. “And,” I said, “I guess that’s about it.”

Sgt. Winn waited a moment, then shook his head. “Moutsos, why don’t you go home.” “Sir?” “Family first. Be there for your wife. Make your kids feel they’re safe.” I blinked, nodded, and said, “Okay.” I shuffled out, feeling disoriented. All the scenarios in my head and this hadn’t been among them. I was able to take time off, even with our squad being short-staffed. I got into my car, grinned, and drove home.

The next three months proved to be the hardest of our lives up to that point. Stacey could barely function as a mom and couldn’t even ride in a car because the bumps in the road caused her so much pain. It took a toll on all of us, emotionally and physically. But we did what we had to do until the baby arrived. She and Stacey were both fine in the end, but it was rough going for those months of bed rest.

Sgt. Winn proved to be one of the best supervisors and one of the best people I’d had the honor of knowing. How all those rumors about him began and were perpetuated I’d never know, but I learned a valuable lesson about prejudging someone based on rumors and hearsay.