(Sean's POV)
The press scatters.
Not slowly — all at once, the way a flock lifts off a wire. Somebody in a van shouts something I don't catch, and the whole pack pivots. Tripods fold. Cables coil into loops faster than they went out. Bodies move toward satellite trucks and sedans and the broadcast vans already pulling away from the curb, taillights swinging into morning traffic.
Ninety seconds. Maybe less. Sixty people, gone.
A coffee cup rolls across the sidewalk, knocked off a barricade by the last camera crew rushing past. Hollow, plastic, small — and the sound of it, that dry scraping rattle, is louder than anything the reporters were shouting five minutes ago.
It rolls to a stop against the side of my foot.
My hand is shaped wrong.
I look down at it. My right hand — the one she
