Go see what is happening in the preserve

"This is such a bad idea," you mutter to yourself as you head across the backyard to the gate in the fence. You slip through and follow a narrow track through the tall grass and brambles. This is the path your aunt takes when she goes for walks in the refuge. Except she goes walking in the daylight, and doesn't have to worry about tripping over tangles of blackberry vines. By the time you reach the road, your bare legs are stinging from a dozen bloody scratches. Trekking through the bush in shorts was just brilliant.

Keeping to the edge of the road, you head toward the flashing police lights. You're not going to get too close, just close enough to find out what's going on. You walk slowly, tension riding between your shoulder blades, every muscle in your body tense, ready to dive into the bushes at the first sound of gunfire.

A police siren screams to life, not in front of you, but behind, and you whip around as a second and a third cop car some screaming down the gravel road, trailing a plume of dust behind them that reflects the blue and red lights whirling on top of the vehicles. They're not close enough to have seen you yet.