I like the guy who makes the sound effects

There's a helicopter circling my work building. I hear a voice booming through a megaphone, but I can't understand the words. I think a shooting of some sort took place nearby.

This reminds me of some nights in Orlando. My parents' house is a few blocks from the juvenile detention center, and every once in awhile someone escapes and runs into the woods, which run right up to the border of our backyard. The helicopters hover, and sometimes a spotlight from above will illuminate the entire living room for a moment, like a prolonged flash of lightning. When I was smaller, it frightened me a bit. But as I grew older, I began to imagine myself as the escapee. Where would I go? Which places would be suitable for hiding? Could I get away with it?

I could get away with it, I concluded. I'd make my way to a lake that I knew existed on the other side of the woods, and then I'd swim across the lake. This would eliminate any scent, in case bloodhounds trailed me. Clothes might be a problem, but I'd pick through trash cans until I found something, no matter how disgusting. They would only need to last until I could make it to the Good Will a few blocks away, where I could fish some nicer things out of the donation bin. Close to Goodwill are some train tracks. I'd hop a cargo train and end up somewhere far and anonymous, maybe Macon, Georgia.

But I hope the Beverly Hills cops catch this Beverly Hills fugitive.