She was doing this in her Camry when she got to that stretch she hated so much, somewhere near Edgehill Park, where it was dark, because the day was no longer helpful. Mrs. Purvis was the manager of the La Pez Mexican restaurant on Fenton Place. She had just gotten off work this busy Saturday night and was tired. None of it was her fault when Queens ran into Queens and the gray, hard-to-see Prelude ran into her.

“Ma’am, did you see the stop sign there?” The boy cop pointed.

Myra Purvis had reached her limit. She had turned seventy last February and didn’t have to take this sort of shit anymore.

“Is it in Braille?” she smartly asked this whippersnapper in blue with a white tornado on his arms, reminding her of something she once used to mop her kitchen floor. What was the name of that? Genie in a Bottle? No. Lord, this happened a lot.

“I want to go to the hospital,” that man in the Honda was complaining. “My neck hurts.”

“Lying like a rug,” Mrs. Purvis told the cop, wondering why he wasn’t wearing any hardware beyond a whistle. What if he got in a shoot-out?

Deputy Chief West didn’t often get out to cruise so she could check on her troops. But this night she had been in the mood. She floated along rough, dark streets in David One, listening to Brazil’s voice on the scanner in her car.

“One subject requesting transport to Carolinas Medical Center,” Brazil was saying.

West saw him in the distance, from the vantage of her midnight-blue car, but he was too busy to notice as he filled out a report. She circled the intersection as he worked hard, talking to subjects in barely damaged cars. Flares languished along the roadside, his grille lights silently strobing. His face was eerie in blue and red pulses, and he was smiling, and seemed to be helping an old biddy in a Camry. Brazil lifted his radio, talking into it.

He marked E.O.T. for End Of Tour and drove to the newspaper. Brazil had a ritual few people knew about, and he indulged himself in it after zipping through a small story on Charlotte’s quirky traffic problems. He went up the escalator three moving steps at a time. The workers in the press room had gotten used to him long months before and didn’t mind when he came into their off-limits area of huge machinery and deafening noise. He liked to watch some two hundred tons of paper fly along conveyor belts, heading to folders, destined for bundles and driveways, his byline on them.

Brazil stood in uniform and watched, not talking, overwhelmed by the power of it all. He was used to laboring on a term paper that took months and was read by maybe one person. Now he wrote something in days or even minutes, and millions of people followed every word. He could not comprehend it. He walked around, avoiding moving parts, wet ink, and tracks to trip on as the roar filled his ears like a tornado on this sixth night before the seventh day of his career’s creation.