"I've never seen someone keep shaking this long after getting Tasered," a woman's voice said. "You think he's having a seizure?" another woman asked, her voice deeper than the first one. "I don't think so," the first woman said. "His vitals are normal. He's just shaking, like the current is still going through him." The shakes tapered to a few mild ripples and I opened my eyes. "Shaking is what I do." I was laying on a gurney inside an ambulance, flanked by two female paramedics, stethoscopes hanging around their necks. The one on my left was smiling; her partner on my right frowning, checking the readout on the blood pressure monitor a second time. I raised my head, glancing around. Quincy Carter was standing outside the ambulance, one of its two doors open wide enough to let him in and keep most of the cold air out. "And you're damn good at it," he said. "Thanks. First time I've been hit with a Taser." "At least you didn't shit your pants," Carter said. "It makes some guys do that. Makes some guys' hearts stop too.
