A life can vanish in the space between heartbeats, on a street you drive every day.
At dusk, Maya steps out of the gym. The air is thick with the smell of rubber and rain, her keys biting into her palm as the overhead lights buzz. Two rows over, a sedan is idling. The window is barely cracked, a plume of breath fogging the glass. A voice, polite but urgent, asks if she dropped something. As sh...
