Halogen lamps focused on the knees collapsing in the split second it took for the torso to somersault across the canopy in a spiderweb of internal injury. She twisted the wheel with a foot on the brake to survey the damage. She stepped out of the car to scan the sky—no newscopters, no recognition.

She snapped a flare. Five minutes passed as reassurance that no witness survived. A motorcycle with paint-rash was worth more than mint so she abandoned the now battered L’État coupe and mounted the dented Trom Via and headed south. After all, it looked like the poor joke had simply flown out of a windshield of a forensic investigation mobius.

Skid marks would certainly prove inconclusive and she was already miles away before she smiled.