To this day, I still remember the flash of blue lights, squeezing my eyes tight, thinking, Not again, not ever. Forcing them open, my body to move. Hands shaking as I pulled the door shut and fumbled with the lock. I remember the smell of rubber as we hunkered down on the floor behind the long bar and listened to the shouts outside the windows. The silent tears of the mother pressed into the floor next to me, the way she buried her face in her daughter’s hair, shushing her, when she was the one crying. The look in the girl’s dry eyes, the smear of blood on her cheek, and the knowledge that she’d forever avoid open spaces, jump at the sound of a balloon pop, fireworks, the high shriek of laughter. That from now on the smell of Saran-wrapped sandwiches and dirty bar mats would make her sick. That there’d be a hundred people just like her, who witnessed everything, would never stop witnessing, and would never be the same. I remember phones buzzing, the way their screens lit up, the mixture of relief and fear in voices as separated people tried to connect with loved ones.

But I remember something else, too. I remember the way the detectives skirted buildings, kicked in alley doors, and asked questions—the surge of adrenaline, of purpose, in protecting the community from people who pretend they’re one thing, when really, they’re something entirely different. Of course, it didn’t occur to me then that most days weren’t occupied by murders and manhunts, but by paperwork and politics, and that those two-faced villains might be the ones holding the badge. All I knew was the way the detectives worked in tandem, communicating with signs and symbols and quick glances, the kind of nonverbal indications that told you they worked every day side by side, understood each other, all their quirks and habits—I wanted that.

Ever since Craig left me standing alone on that street corner, I felt like I’d been holding my breath. I wanted consistency, I wanted purpose. But most of all, I wanted a partner. I wanted one person in this crazy, unpredictable world whom I could trust. A partner who whistled when he was happy, who knew the rhythm of my thoughts, who stole snacks from my desk, and bought me coffee in return, and no one kept track because there would always be another day, another candy bar, another caffeine run. But I’ve never been good at boundaries, drawing lines in the sand, and demarcating professional from personal, partner from friend, and friend from something else, so that now, as Teddy jogs to catch up with me, I look away from him, afraid he’ll see it all—every conflicted thought and needy feeling—if I meet his gaze.

Together, we turn back in the direction of the car.