A bite of Twinkie, sip of Ginger Ale. It was as much of a celebration as Agent Lefleur would allow himself while he was driving. The highway stretched before him, the road North, not home but away.

He’d dived into the river last night hoping to find a dead perp and a live girl. Bleeding from head and neck, coughing and sputtering, she’d come to the surface, willingly or not. There would be scars, but she would live.

They would all have scars from wounds that time would take years to mend. And so Agent Lefleur fled early the next morning, left them to put the pieces back together. They would heal. He would be gone, on to the next case.

He felt sorry for them, but mingled in was a quiet jealousy. Surrounded by family and friends, they would rediscover some sense of normalcy. For a time, the great play of life would stop and bid them rest. Another thoughtful bite of Twinkie and Agent Lefleur considered that he too could stop. He could be whole again.

But he kept on driving.

No time.

No peace.