A woman whispering to her companion asked, “Is he… okay?”
The reply came almost immediately, hushed, almost reverent: “He looks… lost.”
Other officers stood back, giving him space. They knew some calls carved wounds deeper than any gunfire. His radio crackled continuously, but Harper didn’t respond, his eyes fixed on the crushed bicycle as though replaying the last moments again and again, trying to extract a miracle from memory.
Then came a sound that didn’t belong in the quiet aftermath of a crash.
Engines.
Low at first, distant, growing steadily until the vibration could be felt through the soles of shoes and the wet pavement itself.
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