Five feet away from me, Werther stands there, smiling. Gloating motherfucker. Well, it was a fun ride while it lasted. I wonder where I’ll end up when I die.

A speeding F-150, with ridiculously oversized tires for a ridiculously oversized truck, jumps the curb and plows into Werther. There’s a tremendous crunch, like a bag full of china being beaten with a shovel. Werther goes flying.

The passenger door flies open and the driver, a black woman who looks vaguely familiar, yells, “Get in here.”

My momma told me not to get into cars with strange people, but I don’t know anybody stranger than myself, so I jump in. I’ll worry about who I’ve gotten a ride from once people aren’t shooting at me.

She slams the gas before I even get the door closed. If she’s hitting the street, she’ll need to turn around, and a truck like this isn’t exactly known for agility. Then I realize she is going for the street. The next block over. Through a Catholic school.

“Um—”

“Jesus, you look like shit,” she says. “I mean, I’ve heard stories, but man, you look like twenty miles of rough road.”

“A shower, a shave, a 55-gallon drum of Bactine, and I’ll be just peachy. You do know that there are buildings in the way, right?”

“And stairs right there.” She’s right. Between two buildings there’s a wide stairway that leads to a grassy area and then out to a parking lot.

She hits the stairs and gets air. The truck hits halfway down. Just ahead of us and off to the side is Werther, slowly picking himself up. He flew quite a bit when she hit him. Probably broke every bone in his body.

“Didn’t I run him over?”

“You did. Thank you, by the way, now—”

“But he’s standing like nothing happened.”

“Magic. Is there nothing it can’t do?”

We pass Werther, who’s still trying to get his body back in order. All of his limbs are at funny angles as they reknit and rebuild themselves. His neck is cocked to the side in a way no neck ever should be.

He glares at me. I give him a big smile and wave.

“Okay, who was that?”

“I got a better question,” I say. “Who are you?”

“You don’t recognize me?”

“In my defense, people were shooting at me.” Now that I get a really close look at her, I do recognize her. “Holy shit. Letitia?”

“That’s Detective Letitia Watson to you, sunshine.” She unclips a badge in a leather flip case from her belt and shows it to me. No shit.