The Stolen Meds Convoy

The warehouse smelled of wet cardboard and bureaucratic indifference. Barb knelt by the steering column of a 2004 Buick LeSabre that had seen better decades. Her knees made a sound like dry kindling snapping. It was spring in Kenora, which meant the air was fifty percent oxygen and fifty percent pulverized road salt. Outside the chain-link fence, the protest was a blurred mess of neon vests and handmade signs. The LTC facility had been dark for a week. No power. No staff. No insulin for Jim’s grandson. Barb pulled a panel loose. Plastic tabs shattered. She didn't care.

"The theatricality of my collapse must be absolute, Barbara," Jim whispered into his collar mic. He was standing fifty yards away near the security kiosk. He looked ridiculous in a flat cap and a windbreaker that was mostly lint.

"Just drop, Jim. The guard is distracted by a TikTok dance ten feet to his left. Do the thing," Barb said. She stripped two wires with her molars. The copper tasted like old pennies and failure.

"I shall descend unto the pavement with the grace of a fallen titan," Jim declared. Through the cracked windshield, Barb watched him. Jim clutched his chest with both hands. He let out a theatrical wail that cut through the sound of the chanting crowd. He hit the asphalt hard. It looked painful. The security guard, a kid who couldn't have been more than nineteen, dropped his phone.

"Sir! Sir, are you having a medical event?" the guard shouted.

"The light! It beckons!" Jim bellowed. He was really leaning into it.

Barb twisted the wires. The starter motor groaned. It sounded like a blender full of gravel. Then, the V6 engine caught. It vibrated the entire frame of the car. The smell of unburnt fuel filled the cabin. Barb kicked the door open and waved. Jim scrambled off the ground with a speed that defied his hip replacement. He sprinted toward the passenger side. The guard stood there, hands on his belt, completely frozen.

"To the pallet, James! Our destiny awaits in the loading bay!" Barb shouted over the engine's roar.

Jim dived into the seat. He was panting. His face was the color of a ripe tomato. "The performance was adequate, was it not?"

"You were a regular Olivier. Shut the door," Barb said. She slammed the LeSabre into reverse. The tires spun in the mud, throwing a brown rooster tail over the security kiosk. She pivoted the massive sedan and backed it straight into the loading dock where a pallet of refrigerated supplies sat under a flickering LED.

They worked in a frantic, clumsy rhythm. Jim threw boxes of insulin and bandages into the trunk. His hands shook. Barb checked her iPhone 17, which was mounted to the dash with a piece of chewing gum. The map showed a single red line snaking toward the isolated clinic north of the bypass.

"The authorities have been alerted. I can hear the sirens of the state approaching," Jim said. He climbed back in, slamming the door.

"They are late to the party," Barb said. She floored it. The Buick leaped forward, its suspension bottoming out on the transition from the warehouse floor to the gravel lot.

"Consult the parchment, Barbara! The digital oracle is prone to deception!" Jim pulled out a map of Northwestern Ontario from 1994. It was yellowed and smelled of damp basement.

"Put that trash away, Jim. The iPhone says the bypass is clear. Your map still shows a Blockbuster on Highway 17," Barb snapped. Her thumbs blurred over the screen. She was adjusting the route while steering with her knees.

"The paper does not require a satellite uplink to function! We shall find ourselves mired in a swamp if we trust that glowing glass slab!"

"I am trying to save your grandson's life, not navigate a historical reenactment!" Barb swung the wheel. The Buick tilted dangerously. A single RCMP cruiser appeared in the rearview mirror, its lights flashing a rhythmic blue and red.

"Behold, the pursuer!" Jim pointed a shaky finger at the mirror. "Constable Young. He was always a diligent lad. He will not relent easily."

"He's driving a Ford Explorer. He thinks he has the advantage. He doesn't know about the LeSabre’s turning radius," Barb said. She felt a surge of something she hadn't felt since 1989. It wasn't just adrenaline. It was the realization that she was currently the most interesting person in Kenora.

They hit the main road. The spring thaw had turned the asphalt into a minefield of potholes. The car bucked. Barb saw a Tim Hortons sign ahead.

"I require sustenance for the journey ahead, and perhaps a moment of levity," Jim said.

"We are being chased by the police, Jim!"

"The drive-thru is a tactical bottleneck! He cannot arrest us if we are surrounded by civilians seeking caffeine!"

Barb groaned but swung the car into the Tim Hortons lane. The RCMP cruiser slowed down behind them, trapped by a minivan and a pickup truck. The officer looked confused. He didn't turn off his lights.

"Welcome to Tims, what can I get you?" the speaker crackled.

"A large double-double and a box of assorted Timbits, post-haste!" Jim shouted into the menu board.

Barb looked at him. His eyes were bright. The fear had been replaced by a wild, geriatric glee. She reached over and squeezed his hand. His skin was like parchment, but his grip was firm.

"You are a ridiculous man, James," she whispered.

"And you are a getaway driver of unparalleled ferocity," he replied.

They pulled to the window. Barb handed the teenager a crumpled twenty. The kid looked at the police car behind them, then back at the two seniors in the beat-up Buick.

"Keep the change. We are on a mission from a higher power," Barb said.

She took the coffee and the box of donuts. As they pulled out, she saw Constable Young trying to negotiate his way around the minivan. Barb didn't wait. She hammered the gas. They hit the bypass. The road here was a disaster. A massive frost heave, a literal wave of frozen earth and asphalt, loomed ahead.

"Brace yourself, James! We are about to achieve flight!"

"May the heavens catch us!" Jim cried out, clutching the Timbits box to his chest like a holy relic.

The Buick hit the heave at eighty kilometers per hour. The front wheels left the ground. For a second, there was silence. The engine revved freely in the air. Barb felt weightless. Her stomach floated into her chest. Then, the car slammed back down. The shocks groaned in agony. A hubcap detached itself and skipped across the mud like a silver coin. But they were still moving.

"We have triumphed over the terrain!" Jim cheered.

They reached the clinic twenty minutes later. The building was a small prefab unit surrounded by pine trees and melting slush. Three nurses stood on the porch, looking exhausted. When Barb slid the Buick to a halt, the nurses ran down the steps.

Jim climbed out, holding the boxes of insulin. "The supplies have arrived! The blockade has been breached!"

The nurses started cheering. They took the boxes with frantic gratitude. Barb stepped out of the car. Her back felt like it had been compressed by a hydraulic press, but she didn't care. The air smelled of pine and victory.

Jim walked over to her. He held the box of Timbits. He opened it. "A celebratory confection, Barbara?"

"Give me a honey dip," she said.

He handed her the donut. Their fingers brushed. The sun was beginning to set, casting long, orange shadows across the mud. Jim leaned in. He smelled like old spice and coffee.

"I find that my affection for you has reached a critical mass," Jim said, his voice dropping to a theatrical stage whisper.

"Shut up and kiss me, Jim," Barb said.

They kissed. It tasted like sugar and spring air. The nurses cheered again. Behind them, the faint sound of a siren grew louder, but for the first time in decades, Barb didn't feel like she was waiting for the end. She was right in the middle of it.