Palms to the glass, watching the lot from his ofﬁce window, MilesBradford saw her topple. The fall was a slow-motion sort of thing,the type of tilt and drop that made him hesitate, unsure for a longsecond whether to laugh or worry. He held his breath, urging herup. Any second now, knowing he was there, she’d turn toward thebuilding and wave. They’d laugh about it later.But she didn’t move. Made no attempt to edge out from beneaththe motorcycle that pinned her leg to the pavement. Didn’t evenraise her head.Seeing though not understanding, moving as if treading water,Bradford backed away from the window. Then turned and boltedout of the ofﬁce, down the hall, and past reception. Bypassed theelevators for the stairs, took the ﬁve ﬂoors at a run, and emergedfrom the stairwell into the lobby, where he pushed through the bigglass doors only to ﬁnd an ambulance blocking the northern lot ac-cess and Munroe on a stretcher, being lifted into its interior.Bradford yelled, swung his arms to attract the attention of theparamedics so they would wait a moment longer, and allow himtime to get across the lot so he could ride with her. But they neverturned, never looked. The stretcher slid inward, the doors shut, andBradford ran again, racing the distance, arriving seconds too late.