Graham woke up with a spring on his step that day. Frankie's dreary apartment seemed to glow with nonexistent colors, with the earthy smell of freshly made coffee enticing his nose as soon as he opened his eyes. Of course, the apartment hadn't really changed at all: it was the same grimy, cheap, and musky hell-hole as before, but that day, Graham felt different. Happier. Helpful, even; he hadn't felt like that in a long time.

If anything, he was unnecessarily eager to get to work. Even Frankie noticed his change in demeanor.

"Why so peppy dis early 'n the mornin'? Got a wet dream or sumthin'?"

Graham felt so good that he ignored his grumpy companion, silently taking a seat across from him. The metal chair felt cold on his back. "Nah. Shit's been good these past few days. Got this case I managed to crack open yesterday. I smell a promotion."

Frankie frowned, pushing a smoking tin cup full of coffee toward Graham. "Kid, gotta ask ya somethin'. Why the duck ya even care 'bout that gig? Ya know ya there to wash Dara's dirty laundry, right? Your main gig's with us."

Graham took a mouthful of coffee. No sugar. Disgusting. "That's not entirely true. Dara still has to answer to her bosses. I still gotta make a real effort. And it's different from working with the syndicate."

"Why? Pay's better?"

"Pay's shit," Graham said, chuckling. "It's just, I don't do much for the Lynches and you know it. I obey. I'm good at obeying. But with my other work, I can think for myself, and make decisions. I can prove I'm smart. I like to be recognized. When was the last time Kenny said 'Good job, Frankie. Here's a car' to you?"

Frankie was taken aback for a second. His wide, dumb eyes got stuck in Graham's with a feeling Graham knew was not of much appreciation. "Don't go talkin' shit 'bout Kenny or any of 'em. They keep me fed 'n shit. They pay fo' this roof. A roof your crusty ass is livin' in."

"Frankie, chill," said Graham, raising his hands as a sign of surrender. "I'm not talking shit about anyone. Just trying to say, I feel the urge to get a pat on the back when I do something nice every once in a while. Besides, helping people feels nice; you get all kinds of gratitude."

"I help your ass not be homeless. Feels like shit and I get no thanks."

"I got you that whiskey bottle. What more do you want?"

Remembering that in fact, he still had some booze in that bottle, Frankie stood up, cup in hand, towards the kitchen counter, where a Jameson bottle beckoned him to pour its contents into his coffee. Frankie obliged its wishes. "Ya could 'ave picked a better one."

"I have to pay alimony. That's all I could afford."

Frankie returned to his seat, wiping his wet hand on his wife beater. "How's that bitch doin'? Whatshername?"

"Maria. She's fine. Getting it with some French dude, Pierre."

"Want me to give 'em a visit?" said Frankie, "Didn't give 'er a weddin' gift. How 'bout a set o' knives?"

"Not worth it. Don't wanna have another dead girl under my belt."

"Whaddaya mean, 'nother'?"

Graham took a look at his watch. He still had some time, and he was in a good mood. What the hell, let's talk.

"Well. Dara gave me this case. Some college kid went missing. Her name was Tracy Esposito. A sweet young thing. You know how the city tries to screw over Dara all the time, giving her some impossible cases to solve and stuff? Well, this was one of those."

"So?" said Frankie, cupping his now lukewarm coffee between his hands. He wouldn't admit it, but he loved to gossip.

"So, I got the case assigned. I started to investigate and gather some evidence, but nothing came up. Dara was riding on me for this one. Feeding me leads and helping me out. I thought we had a solid lead with a kid who was obsessed with her, but in the end, nothing. In the end, Dara chose to use the syndicate to investigate."

"Ah. I remember somethin' 'bout that. Like two years ago, right? Kenny got us searchin' for this kid."

"Same one. In the end, we found her body floating in the river, bloated like a sun-roasted pig. Since then, Dara has given me the stink eye. She couldn't demote me for that because Internal Affairs was gonna grill her if she did, but things haven't been the same ever since. She took my car away, gave me all the crap cases, all that stuff. This new case was my comeback and I nailed it."

"Congrats. But don't forget who ya work for. Ya gonna get shanked if you take this cop thing seriously."

"Easy," Graham said, not entirely easy himself, "I got it under control." Graham took another glance at his watch, it read six-thirty. "Look, gotta go. Thanks for the coffee. See ya."

"Bring some more booze on ya way back!"

The air was crisp and neat, cut by the swing of cars buzzing by in front of the precinct. The city was back to its usual bustling self, dredging everyone from businessmen to salarymen alike. It was something Graham always felt refreshing: No matter in which place in society a person was, the streets discriminated none. But that day he was feeling on top of the world.

The first thing Graham did as he entered the precinct was to knock on the Captain's door.

"C'mon in!" she yelled from the other side.

Dara was leaning on her chair, munching on some cookies on the table. She was staring hard at a legal pad in her hand, twirling a red pen between her fingers. The way she scrunched her nose while she thought hard about something was something Graham always found adorable, but that was about it. Her meaty, coarse lips were mouthing something; her eyes darted back and forth along the paper.

"Captain," said Graham, breaking her concentration. Dara looked up at him, plastering a big smile on her freckled face.

"Top o' the mornin', Dunne. Have a seat. Close the door behind ya."

Graham took a seat on a cheap iron chair. Dara pushed the little package of cookies towards him, in a gesture to offer Graham some. He declined with another gesture.

"We booked the kid. Found nothin' interesting on him. Took some urine samples that came positive for weed, so we have that."

"Good, good," replied Graham, shifting in his seat. "Did you inform the prosecutor's office?

"Yep. Ya done with the paperwork for the briefing?"

"Already gave it to you yesterday."

"Such a diligent boy," she joked. "Follow me, Detective. I've somethin' for ya."

Graham hadn't been to the basement parking lot in years as the smell of cheap gas and oil was too much for him. Cruisers came and went at all hours. And he was about to join that blitz once again.

"This way," said Dara, pointing at the corner of the parking lot.

Sitting there was his former patrol car, a maroon Ford Crown Victoria. It was an old model, but it had been his partner before. Graham knew every nook and cranny of that vehicle.

Graham caressed the car with his hand, getting a layer of muck and dust stuck in his palm. Nobody had driven it since him.

"What are ya doin' gropin' that car like a college girl? Ya ain't driving that."

"What do you mean? This is my car."

"Nu-uh, ya won't take the turd-mobile. You're gonna cruise in style."

Dara took a set of keys from her pockets, throwing them to Graham. "Take care of it, big boy."

Graham didn't recognize those keys. The remote was black, with several sets of numbers on it, and a Dodge symbol on top. He pressed the biggest button on it, producing a powerful beeping sound from somewhere behind him.

Graham's eyes lit up when he realized what made that sound. A jet-black Dodge Pursuer, brand new.

"W-w-w-," Graham tried to speak, but it was useless, he was speechless.

"It's a bit of an overkill, but hell if it ain't a beauty," said Dara, patting Graham on the back. "Lemme give ya the tour."

Dara opened the car to reveal fake leather upholstery on the seats. The dashboard was filled with all kinds of gauges and lights.

"Here's the deal. It has GPS, cameras on the front an' back that automatically backup on a special server; a state-of-the-art radio, an' all the basics of a cruiser. Everythin' is bullet-proof, of course. From the remote, you can lock and unlock the car, and even send a distress signal."

Graham placed both hands on the roof of the car, taking everything in. It was a monster of a car. Even while turned off, he could feel the raw power of the beast. "Are you sure you wanna give this to me?"

"You deserve it, Dunne. Why don't ya take it for a spin?"

Graham didn't think twice before hopping into the vehicle.

"Have fun, ya crazy kid. But get back before the prosecutor comes. You will brief 'em."

She was right. It purred like a kitten and ran like a puma, too. Graham ran through the pike with the sirens on. Seeing the cars move for him gave him a power rush. The Dodge glided through the street like it could float. Graham couldn't do anything but laugh. A year ago, he was at the bottom, doing errands for the top brass. Now he was the top brass. Nothing commanded more respect than him at that moment.

He wanted to see his baby in action. With a flick of the wrist, the police radio came to life. Graham was determined to take the first call that came through, provided it was nothing overly dangerous. Lucky for him, one came almost immediately.

"...have a 10-56 in progress near Boston Common. I repeat, we have a 10-56 in progress near Boston Commons..."

An intoxicated pedestrian. That's an easy one, he thought. "Detective Graham Dunne, I'm nearby. I'll take a look, over."

"10-4, over," chimed the radio. It was game time.

In mere minutes, Graham made it to the park. Boston Common was covered with a thick layer of snow, but it was full to the brim with people mingling around. Skaters glided through the frozen pond while kids and adults alike dashed through the slopes on top of garbage can lids. The biggest group of people surrounded the famous Soldiers and Sailors Monument, an obelisk honoring the memory of fallen soldiers from the Civil War. Graham was certain they weren't there for the historical value. He was sure that his target was there.

And sure enough, surrounded by a horde of mocking people filming the spectacle, a young woman was screaming into the floor. She wore a ragged gray dress with no sleeves, soiled with brown and yellow stains. Her wrists were bloodied and raw, with scratches mixing with track marks all over her arms. She was yelling in some foreign language he didn't quite understand, but Graham assumed it was some kind of Asian language, given her features.

Her skin was brown and tanned, but incredibly ashen, most likely a result of dehydration. Her black hair was unkempt and knotted, filled with grime and grease. A pair of brown eyes were hidden by heavy black bags, unfocused and deranged. Whatever she was on, it was incredibly powerful. It was obvious the woman was on a different existential plane on her mind.

"Ma'am, are you okay?" Graham asked, making his way through the crowd.

The girl continued to scream, ignoring Graham and the crowd completely. Graham took out his badge, showing it to the laughing mob.

"Show's over. Boston Police. Back off!"

The calmness that plagued the precinct a few hours ago had been quickly replaced by panic during the short time Graham was out. Officers went from one place to another, taking calls or filling out paperwork. In the middle of the chaos, Captain Dara Lynch was sitting on a metal desk, overseeing the comings and goings of the officers.

Without the aid of any officer, Graham had to transport the shrieking woman by himself, adding a new layer of noise to the chaotic cacophony.

"You been busy, Dunne," said Dara with a smirk. "Who's the hotty?"

"Some bozo I picked up at Boston Common."

"Throw her in the drunk tank. We got work to do."

"I can see that. What the hell's happening?"

"Some car fell off the Harvard Bridge yesterday. Quite a shit show. Not your problem, though. The prosecutor will be here any second. Get your ass in line."

"Yes, ma'am," he said, walking towards the holding cells.

A big-headed officer was idling behind a counter, clearly the only officer beside himself that was free at the moment. He looked more dead than alive, barely moving from his seat. He was, by far, the oldest officer in the precinct.

"Marvin!" Graham yelled, slamming his hand on the counter. The officer did not even flinch, shifting his droopy eyes towards Graham with a solemn slowness, as if his eyes weighted a ton.

"Yes. What can I do for you, Graham?" he said with a slow, but clear enunciation. His deep, emotionless voice always gave him a tone of not caring what was happening around him, as long as people left him alone.

"Put this girl in a holding cell 'till she sobers up."

"I'm fine, thanks for asking," he says, pushing a few forms for Graham to fill out. "The weather has been especially gray, which I love."

"Sorry, Marvin. Things are hectic today and-"

"Yes, this is a new haircut," Marvin interrupted, "thank you for noticing."

"You're bald, Marvin."

"I could have hair," he said, dreadfully. Graham liked Marvin enough, but he could be a pain in the ass if he wanted to, not like Graham blamed him for it though, being cooped up in the holding cells like this every day can make a man lose his sanity. For Marvin, it meant losing his hair, which he was still bitter about even though his last lock of hair fell when the Berlin Wall did.

"Yeah, sure. Whatever you say, buddy."

While filling up the form, he became oddly aware that the only sound in the room was from his pen scratching the paper. At some point he was unaware of, the girl had stopped yelling. A quick glance at her figure disappearing down the aisle made him realize that the girl had her gaze pinned on him with intense anger.

After a few minutes, Marvin shuffled back to his desk, with his eyes dragging all across the floor as he walked.

"Funny thing, that woman," he commented.

"Why? Because of the fact that she looks like a banshee?"

"No," he said, ignoring Graham's poor attempt at comedy, "She was muttering the Hail Mary in Vietnamese. Catholicism is not that big in Vietnam."

"You speak Vietnamese? How come?"

Marvin puffed with his jowls, followed by a toothless smile. Graham assumed that was his version of laughter. "I fought in Vietnam. One picks up the language, especially for the ladies. Married one myself."

"Oh, I didn't know you were married."

"'Were'. That's the operative word there. She died..."

"My deepest apologies," said Graham in the sweetest of voices.

"...of syphilis. She was a whore."

No comments from Graham. He slid the papers back to Marvin, who slowly punched them into the computer.

"Hey, if you know the language, maybe you can help me interrogate that woman. She doesn't seem to respond to English anyway."

"Sure. Not like I have anything better to do. Everyone is buzzing around, getting coffee with the Mayor, and poor old Marvin gets to take care of the rabble. Forty years in the force..."

Graham tuned him out, walking towards the holding cell as fast as he could. There she was, standing in a corner, talking to the air. She seemed to have a really heated conversation too, as she waved her hands around for emphasis.

"...since then, nobody could even find Jimmy Hoffa's body. Clever hiding spot, uh?" said Marvin, finally catching up to Graham.

"Yeah," he answered dismissively. "Let's do this."

Graham knocked on the bars of the cell, calling her attention. The girl's head snapped to the source of the sound, pinning her eyes on Graham.

"Good. Okay, Marvin, first-" he began to say but was interrupted by the piercing wail of the woman. It was an incredibly high-pitched sound, like the sharpest note of a violin being played over and over again.

"Jesus! Stop!" yelled Graham. Marvin stood unfazed.

The girl scrambled back against the wall like a predator spider, putting as much distance from the pair as humanly possible. She hissed and spit, pointing a bony finger at Graham's face.

"Táu! Táu! Táu!" she screamed, making sure to emphasize every word with a shove of her finger.

"What's she trying to say?" asked Graham.

Marvin rubbed his chin for a moment in deep thought. "Well. It means boat. A large boat. A cargo boat."

Graham looked at her in confusion. Then it dawned on him.

She was one of the people he had smuggled on that last batch.

ONE DAY AFTER THE SECOND DISASTER