On March 8th, 2018, Hamish watched a white pickup truck smash into a streetcar full of passengers. When he rushed into the station to alert the authorities, he didn’t know what was coming out, but whatever he said seemed to work. Three transit police followed him up the stairs, but attempted to arrest him before noticing the wreck. He was still in handcuffs when the fire department arrived.

On March 8th, 2018, Thomas stepped into traffic to pull an injured woman out of a streetcar that had just been impaled by a white pickup truck. He could not free her legs from under a sheet of metal. He went back to the plaza and sat on a stone bench, watching the commotion. An older woman was trying to wipe the blood off his shirt when the fire department arrived.

On March 8th, 2018, Haley was entering the station when she heard a crash and screaming coming from the street level. A man bolted down the steps and yelled something about a car, but Haley couldn’t make anything else out, because she had her headphones in.

I was at 2400 miles when I felt the rage at my wheel, and ended my engine in a body not mine.

On March 8th, 2018, Tasia was trying to get a man clutching a plastic bag to sit down. “Or at least stand behind the yellow line, have mercy,” when the crunch of metal lurched the streetcar off it’s track, and a white flag fell over her sight, like a light and a mirror. She could still hear the door of the streetcar dutifully attempting to squeeze itself open, as if attempting to let what was left of the man with the plastic bag out of the streetcar.

Reaching for the connection as the sparks shoot out of me.

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