Rudolph did not open the door. A soft, whirring mechanical noise could be heard as the mechanism that powered the door struggled to close the remaining three-inch gap.

“Oh my God,” Sandra whispered. She went back into her bag for her phone, glanced away from the horror show playing out in front of her long enough to tap in 911 and put the phone to her ear.

Ruskin rushed forward and got his fingers around the edge of the door in a bid to retract it. “Help me!” he shouted at the reporters, most of whom were standing there dumbstruck, except for the two or three who were filming the incident with their phones. Two other men stepped forward, huddling with Ruskin, struggling to get the door open far enough to allow Lisa to either draw her leg in, or bolt from the vehicle altogether.

Blood continued to run down her leg and pool on the asphalt around her foot.

Sandra was watching the three men pulling on the door when some movement in the parking lot caught her attention. It was filled, of course, with other Arrivals, in enough different colors that if you’d put them all in a glass jar, you’d have something that looked like the world’s biggest gumball dispenser.

The Arrivals—all unoccupied—were starting to look like a Broadway marquee. Taillights and headlights began to flash on and off. A chorus of horns rose from them, adding to the sense of pandemonium.

It was as if they were . . . excited.

“Emergency. How may I direct your call? Fire, police, or ambulance?”

Sandra was so distracted by the cars’ collective behavior that she’d forgotten she had the phone to her ear.

“Uh, all of them!” she shouted at the female emergency operator. “To the community center! Her leg . . . her leg is trapped in the—oh, shit, I don’t believe it.”

The Arrival chomping down on Lisa Carver’s leg had started to move, with the woman still trapped inside, her leg caught in the door. The front tires turned sharply, sending the car into a tight circle.

Ruskin and the two other men who’d been trying to pry the door open had no choice but to release their grip and jump back. Other members of the media scattered to avoid being run over.

The wheels remained turned, and the red Arrival zipped around in a tight circle like a top, holding a screaming Lisa captive.

“Hello?” said the 911 dispatcher. “Hello?”

But Sandra had already lowered the phone and let it fall from her fingers back into her purse. “This is not happening,” she whispered. “This is . . . insane.”

“Smash a window!” someone shouted.

“Jump on it!” yelled another.