But there was a lone pedestrian crossing the street. A woman— hunched and wrapped in a heavy black coat. She was clutching a purse to her chest.

I was suddenly alert. I looked at my watch: three in the morning.

“Poor thing,” Koby whispered. “Can’t we take her to a shelter?”

“I don’t know if she’s homeless,” I told him. “No shopping cart, no bags … just a purse. She’s also wearing sheer stockings, and in this light, her ankles look normal.”

“Ankles?”

“Most of the homeless women have terrible ankles from walking in ill-fitting shoes. And also, the poor health.”

“Hooker?”

“Not one that I recognize. To me, it looks like she had a fight with a boyfriend, and he kicked her out of the car. Look at the downcast gait.”

“Then perhaps we can take her home. It’s dangerous out here.”

Before I could agree, the horrid scene played out in slo-mo. A Jeep Cherokee SUV, tearing against the light, smashed into her, five yards before the safety of the sidewalk. As the body flew upward, a Dodge Caravan minivan crossed the intersection, just in time for the Jeep to smack it broadside, flipping it over. As the woman fell back to earth, she was hit a second time by the minivan, spinning and bouncing on its roof, the van careening totally out of control until it crashed into a power pole. Electricity sparked. The noise was deafening. The woman had been propelled clear across the boulevard and had landed on the asphalt with a thud. The Jeep did a two-tire screeching turn, speeding off to freedom.

“Shit!” Koby screamed. He punched open a dashboard door, extracted a pair of latex gloves, and snapped them over his hands. He was out of the car before I could unbuckle my seat belt. “Don’t move, don’t move, don’t move!” he yelled out to the passengers in the wrecked minivan. He was running over to the woman’s inert body.

I raced out of the car, cell phone in my shaking hand.

“Go to the van and tell them not to move!” Koby ordered me. He was leaning over the pedestrian, checking her neck for a pulse. The face was unrecognizable pulp, her body as limp as a rag doll. I bit back bile and ran over to the van, calling 911 as my eyes gawked at the smoking hunk of sheared steel and tangled wires, the entire mess reeking of spilled gas and oil and the metallic stink of burned flesh. Inside, the air bags had deployed, but even so, there was so much blood, guts, and moaning that I nearly fainted at the grisly sight. But as soon as the operator came over my cell, I was surprised by my calm tone, telling him the precise location while requesting paramedics and the fire department stat.

After I hung up, with my mouth still agape, I stared at the carnage inside, unsure how to proceed. I just kept repeating over and over for the passengers not to move, hoping that the panic in my voice wasn’t noticeable. When Koby finally appeared at my side, I exhaled audible relief. Immediately, he went to work, his voice as soothing as lapping waves, as he told the passengers—two men, two women, a couple of kids, and a lifeless baby—not to move while he assessed the damage. Blood was spurting from the arm of one of the women. He tore off his shirt and tied up the artery. Though the night was cold, he was sweating and breathing hard. “You call 911?”