Last spring, a stolen forklift tried to run her trike off Pier 9. She didn’t swerve. She just turned on her floodlight, full beam in the driver’s eyes, and sat there. The forklift hit a pothole and died. The driver ran. Merilyn finished her coffee, then called it in.
She pats the trike’s dash. “Good work, Louise.”
Most of Sector 7 is a ghost after 2 AM—shuttered warehouses, the slow drip of pier water, and the occasional stray dog that knows better than to cross her path. Merilyn doesn’t patrol for speed. She patrols for presence .
At 4 AM, when the rain starts, Merilyn parks under the overpass. She takes off her helmet. Her hair is shorter than it used to be. She has a small scar above her left eyebrow—a souvenir from a drunk with a bottle last February.
She isn’t a hero. She isn’t a detective. She’s the third shift on three wheels, the last set of eyes before the sunrise.
Then she lights a cigarette, watches the fog roll in off the water, and waits for the next stupid thing to happen.
She wrote in the log: “Subject fled on foot. Trike undamaged. Louise performed admirably.”
You see her coming before you hear the whine of the electric motor. Merilyn doesn’t sneak. She arrives .
Last spring, a stolen forklift tried to run her trike off Pier 9. She didn’t swerve. She just turned on her floodlight, full beam in the driver’s eyes, and sat there. The forklift hit a pothole and died. The driver ran. Merilyn finished her coffee, then called it in.
She pats the trike’s dash. “Good work, Louise.”
Most of Sector 7 is a ghost after 2 AM—shuttered warehouses, the slow drip of pier water, and the occasional stray dog that knows better than to cross her path. Merilyn doesn’t patrol for speed. She patrols for presence .
At 4 AM, when the rain starts, Merilyn parks under the overpass. She takes off her helmet. Her hair is shorter than it used to be. She has a small scar above her left eyebrow—a souvenir from a drunk with a bottle last February.
She isn’t a hero. She isn’t a detective. She’s the third shift on three wheels, the last set of eyes before the sunrise.
Then she lights a cigarette, watches the fog roll in off the water, and waits for the next stupid thing to happen.
She wrote in the log: “Subject fled on foot. Trike undamaged. Louise performed admirably.”
You see her coming before you hear the whine of the electric motor. Merilyn doesn’t sneak. She arrives .
