Between them rolled a hydraulic, high-dependency intensive care transport gurney pushed by two flight surgeons from the 55th Medical Group.
“Clear the lane!” the lead surgeon shouted.
They did not ask Daniel Whitaker for permission.
They did not ask his private counsel for a health-proxy waiver.
Within ninety seconds, two six-gauge intravenous lines were punched into the dorsal veins of my forearms:
*SNAP-CLICK.*
A high-output infusion of **Naloxone hydrochloride** and **Pralidoxime chloride** roared into my vascular system, cold as glacial run-off, shocking the opioid receptors in my brainstem back to life with the violence of an electrical defibrillation:
*GASP.*
My lungs seized. Air tore down my trachea in a ragged, burning wheeze: *whoooosh.*
The ceiling of Courtroom 4B snapped into terrifying, razor-sharp focus:
I saw the water stains on the acoustic tiles.
I saw the gold lettering on the state seal behind the bench: *BEFORE THE LAW ALL ARE EQUAL.*
