There was always a phone ringing or a radio squawking, and whether or not there was an actual crime spree going on, the officers were always ready to move. I sucked my breath in as a uniformed officer shimmied by me, his head cocked as he listened to the radio cradled on his shoulder, the butt of his gun brushing up against my hip. “Excuse me,” I muttered, jumping out of the way. “Sorry.” My heart thumped as two officers pushed through the heavy glass doors and led a sullen-looking woman in, her hands in cuffs behind her back, her hair matted, eyes looking caged-animal wild and rimmed with smudged black liner. “I swear,” she was saying as the officers led her past me, “I’m telling you exactly what I saw. It was flying. It was a person and he just flew away.” “Just like last week,” one of the officers answered back, his boredom obvious. “What was it then? A dog the size of a couch, jumping over a car?
