It had started to rain heavily as Lennie Briscoe and Rey Curtis left the homicide scene to go and talk to the vic's next-of-kin.  "Can't hardly see a damn thing," Curtis complained as he pulled into the intersection, making sure that he had the green light.

    The dark gray car suddenly pulled out of the side street.  The driver was totally unaware of the red light as he entered the intersection.  Now, on a collision course with the detectives' vehicle, it struck the driver's side—hard.  Then it abruptly backed up and sped away in the opposite direction.

    They didn't see the car coming.  Curtis was intent on trying to see the rain slicked street.  The impact happened too fast for him to react.  Briscoe automatically braced himself as the car rolled to a halt in the middle of the intersection.  He looked over at his partner.  "Rey?  Rey!"  No answer.  Curtis was slumped against the window, blood pouring from a gash on his forehead.

    Briscoe was struck by a sudden sense of déjà vu as he flashed back to another eerily similar accident.  That time, he'd also been the passenger who could 'walk away'.  But this time, he was stone-cold sober.  "Rey?"  He reached out to touch Curtis' neck, relieved to feel a steady pulse.  "Thank God."

    Curtis moaned softly as he started to come to.

    Suddenly, there came a pounding on the passenger side window.  Briscoe looked out to see three teenagers standing by the car.  Reaching for his weapon, he cracked the window slightly and called out,  "What do you want?"

    "To let you know that we called 911," the older of the two boys said.

    "We've been behind that guy for about eight blocks, watching him drive erratically.  Amira copied down the license plate just in case something like this happened," the other one spoke up.

    A pretty Arabic girl leaned close.  "I've taken EMT training.  Is there anything I can do to help?"

    Briscoe looked at the three 'good Samaratins' and reached to turn on the overhead light.  "Thanks for calling 911."

    "What…happened?" Curtis asked, a little dazed as he started to sit up.

"We were in an accident," Briscoe replied.  He placed a hand on Curtis' shoulder.  "Don't move.  Help's on the way."

    "Okay," Curtis mumbled.  "Did I…hit someone?"

    "No, he hit us," Briscoe replied.  He looked at his partner's pale face.

    "That's good," Curtis mumbled as he slumped back against the window.

    "Rey!  Come on, stay awake!" Briscoe said sharply.

    "Drifting in and out of consciousness is common with a head injury.  Just as long as his pulse and respiration stay steady, he should be all right," Amira explained.

    "I'll keep that in mind.  You kids better stick around in case the police want to talk to you."

    "Sure.  No problem.  We'll just be in that Chevy Blazer over there,' the older boy said.  He nodded to his two friends.  In the distance, they could hear the sound of approaching sirens.

    The ambulance arrived and Briscoe got out of the car to let the paramedics examine Curtis.  Moving to the other side of the vehicle, he saw the damage done to the driver's side.  He shuddered, thinking again of that other accident.

    "Hey?  You okay?" one of the uniform cops asked.

    "Yeah.  I'm fine."  He watched the paramedics checking out Curtis.

    "Pulse 110, respiration's 26.  Let's get him out of the car and then get a BP.  Mike, hand me the C-collar," one of the paramedics was saying.

    Briscoe had gotten hold of a phone and was calling the 2-7.  "Lt. Van Buren, please."
    "Van Buren "

    "Lieutenant, there's been an accident," Briscoe began.

    "What?  Are you and Rey all right?" she interrupted.

    "I'm fine.  The car plowed into Rey's side pretty hard.  The paramedics are checking him out.  I need you to run a plate number for me."

    "What is it?"

    "New York plates:  647ENG," Briscoe read off. 

    "I'll get it done top priority.  What hospital are they taking Rey to?"

    "Probably St. Vincents' since it's the closest.  I'll go check."  He turned to the paramedics.  "What hospital?"

    "St. Vincents'.  We'll be ready to transport in a couple of minutes," Mike replied.

    "St. Vincents'," Briscoe told Van Buren.

    "You ride along to the hospital and I'll meet you there.  We should know the owner of these plates by then."

    Briscoe returned the phone and headed over to the paramedics.  "I'm going with you."

    "All right.  But you have to ride up in front," Mike told him.  He slammed the doors and climbed behind the wheel.  "You okay back there, Kris?"

    "Yeah," she replied.  Mike hit lights and siren as they headed for St. Vincents'.

    They were halfway to the hospital when Curtis came around again.  Finding himself strapped to a backboard, he asked, "What happened?"

    "You were in an accident and now you're on the way to the hospital," Kris replied.

    "Don't want to…go to the hospital," he weakly protested.

    "Rey, no arguing!  You are going to the hospital," Briscoe said firmly.

    "Okay…Did you call…Deborah?" Curtis asked.

    "Not yet."

    "Don't.  She'll only…worry."

    "Let's wait and see how you're doing first," Briscoe suggested.

    Curtis had passed out again so Kris quickly checked his pulse.  Noticing Briscoe's worried expression, she said, "This is quite common with a head injury."

    "So, I've been informed.  How long until we get to the hospital?"

    "Another three, four minutes," Mike spoke up.

    At St. Vincents', Curtis was quickly taken to a trauma room.  Briscoe waited for Van Buren and paced the floor.  He'd tried to get into the trauma room but the door was firmly shut in his face.