Chapter 1: No Way Out

Mom doubled over on the kitchen linoleum, clutching her chest, and all I could think was: Get her to the hospital, now.

My phone was still clutched in my hand from dialing 911, my mind buzzing with panic. The old rotary fan rattled in the window, blowing warm air that did nothing to clear the panic from my chest. It was late afternoon in our small Indiana town—blue sky outside, the faint smell of cut grass drifting through the open hallway window as I struggled to half-carry, half-support Mom’s trembling frame down the stairs.

But as I was panting and dragging her downstairs, I found my car had been booted.

My heart crashed to my sneakers. There was a heavy yellow boot choking my Honda’s front wheel, so out of place on the sunbaked, oil-stained pavement. The note on the windshield flapped in the breeze, a slap in the face. Who boots cars here? My head spun.

Helpless, I could only carry my mom back upstairs and wait for the ambulance.

Each step back up felt like hauling cement. Mom kept apologizing in a whisper, and I just kept saying, "It’s not your fault, it’s not your fault." I set her gently on the couch and called the dispatcher again to confirm the ambulance was on its way.

When the ambulance finally arrived and I saw the driver and EMT come up to our door, I nearly blacked out. This was a nightmare I couldn’t wake up from.

The strobing lights outside the window should have been a relief. Instead, my hands wouldn’t stop shaking. The EMT—a young woman with tired, worried eyes—helped me lift Mom back down. The driver, a middle-aged Black guy in a battered Chicago Cubs hat, muttered, "You folks ready? Let’s get you out of here." I wanted to believe him.

Sure enough, when we got downstairs again, the ambulance was booted too.

My knees buckled. For a second, I thought I might throw up. This couldn’t be real. The three of us just stared. The red-and-white ambulance, doors open, gurney out—and every wheel stuck tight in one of those cheap-looking yellow boots, like some kind of sick prank.

The ambulance driver saw all four wheels locked and just stood there, stunned. Maybe after years on the job, this was his first time seeing an ambulance booted.

He let out a low whistle and shook his head, jaw clenched. "Ain’t never seen that in twenty years. Not even in South Side Chicago. Who the hell does this?"

There was a notice stuck to the windshield with a phone number and big letters: "Unlocking, $300."

The sign looked homemade—Sharpie on printer paper, the phone number scrawled across the bottom. The EMT and I just exchanged glances—this couldn’t be legal.

After carrying my mom up and down the stairs twice, she was already gasping for breath. Luckily, the ambulance had oxygen and a nurse, so she was stable for the moment.

The nurse—a Latina woman with dark, patient eyes—clipped an oxygen mask over Mom’s nose. "Just breathe, ma’am. You’re safe now. We’re not leaving you."

But I didn’t dare delay. I quickly called the number:

"Come unlock the car now, the ambulance needs to take a patient urgently!"

My voice was raw, desperation cracking through the words. I could hear the fear in my own tone, and I hated that it was obvious.

After a while, a security guard came over, riding a beat-up mountain bike with the lock sawed off.

He looked like he belonged in a high school shop class, scruffy beard and faded camo hoodie. The way he pedaled up, slow and cocky, made my stomach clench.

He walked up, not even looking me in the eye:

"Three hundred to take it off. Cash or Venmo."

He jingled a set of keys, thumb idly tracing a skull ring. His eyes slid past me like I was invisible. There was a hint of a Southern twang in his voice, local through and through.

Before I could say anything, the ambulance driver snapped:

"Why? What right does your HOA have to boot cars and fine people?"

He stepped forward, towering over the guard. His arms were crossed, stance wide—a man who’d seen enough disrespect for one lifetime.

The guard rolled his eyes:

"Why you yelling? We’re just following the community rules. If everyone parks wherever they want, how are we supposed to manage this place?"

He leaned his bike against the fence and popped his gum, not even glancing at the gurney or the flashing lights. The indifference stung more than the words.

"We’re an ambulance. There’s a patient inside. Even the cops wouldn’t stop us!"

The driver’s tone was incredulous, hands up in disbelief. "You want the mayor to call you or something?"

"So what if you’re an ambulance? I’m not the cops. In our neighborhood, any car parked illegally gets booted. Are you unlocking or not? If not, I’m leaving."

He started rolling his bike back with one hand, keys dangling threateningly from the other. No remorse, just a half-smirk.

He turned, ready to ride off on his rusty bike.

His back was already to us, like he’d won some sick game. I saw the tattoos crawling up his neck—small town bravado masking a bully’s heart.

Seeing my mom in pain inside the ambulance, I couldn’t wait any longer. I had to get her to the hospital.

I thought about arguing, calling the cops, anything. But Mom’s ragged breaths behind me made up my mind.

"Fine, unlock it!"

"Cash or Venmo?"

He said it like he was taking a pizza order. My jaw locked tight, but my hands were already digging for my phone.

"Venmo."

Swallowing my rage, I gritted my teeth and transferred him $300.

The Venmo app glowed on my screen, his username some mashup of numbers and football teams. The transfer went through with a cheerful ping that made me want to scream.

The guard lazily took a key from his pocket and unlocked the left front wheel. Then he stood up and stared at me, saying nothing.

The key clicked, but he didn’t move to the other wheels. He just leaned against his bike, eyes cold and expectant.

"There are three more locks. Hurry up and unlock them!"

I tried to keep my voice steady, but it was a lost cause.

"Three hundred per lock. You paid three hundred, I can only unlock one."

The words hit like a slap. Even the EMT, silent until now, let out a gasp.

That made my blood boil. I couldn’t hold it in:

"Why the hell didn’t you say so earlier?"

My fists were clenched so hard I could feel my nails biting into my palms. Every part of me wanted to swing, to scream, but Mom needed me calm. Not a headline.

"Watch your mouth. I’m telling you now, aren’t I?"

He gave me a long, lazy look, like he was daring me to take a swing. The kind of guy who knows just how far he can push.

Looking at his shameless face, I barely kept myself from punching him:

"This is extortion."

My voice came out through gritted teeth, each syllable shaking. The ambulance driver looked ready to back me up if things got ugly.

The guard grew impatient:

"Unlocking or not? If not, I’m going back to bed."

He checked his phone, like this was all a minor inconvenience before his nap. The disregard was total, like we weren’t even people.

I saw my wife signaling frantically from the ambulance. I forced myself to calm down. Beating him up wouldn’t help. If anything happened to my mom, I’d never forgive myself.

She pressed her face to the window, mouthing, "Let it go." The ambulance nurse nodded too, urging restraint. I felt my anger curdle into helplessness.

The guard must’ve known this, which is why he was so bold.

There was an arrogance about him—the kind born from knowing nobody ever pushes back in this part of town. He knew we had no choice.

Helpless, I gritted my teeth and Venmoed another $900.

My hands shook so badly it took two tries to get the numbers right. The guard waited, tapping his foot, barely hiding his grin.

"Hurry up and unlock. If anything happens to my family, I swear I won’t let you off."

My voice cracked, raw and trembling. The ambulance driver glared daggers at the guard.

At that, the guard paused:

"What’s that supposed to mean? Who are you threatening? If you’re going to talk like that, I won’t unlock it."

He started swinging his leg over the bike seat again, chest puffed out—like he was looking for any excuse to walk away.

He turned, ready to leave on his bike.

I could see the flicker of fear in his eyes, but also the stubborn pride of a guy who’d gotten away with too much for too long.