A little boy pleads with the police to help him, insisting that a “creature” kidnapped his baby sister. They dismiss what he says—until he shows them a picture no one can explain. The coffee in the breakroom tasted like burned plastic mixed with old bitterness.
It was 3:00 PM on a Tuesday, the dead zone at the 12th Precinct, when the air conditioner made a constant, dull hum, trying and failing to push back the heavy heat pressing against the city. My name is Sergeant Mike Miller. After two decades wearing a badge, the scar on my arm bothers me far less than the numbness inside me.
