Night had only just fallen, the streetlights shifting from their amber glow to a cold white, when Felix turned toward the hospital.
He hadn't planned on going—covering a night shift was trouble enough without taking time out to see a man whose stomach had lost a fight with night-market food. But then again, there weren't many people in this city he could count as "acquaintances." For that reason alone, it was worth the detour.
The hospital lobby was painfully bright, the air carrying a mix of disinfectant and burnt coffee. In the ER waiting area, a muted television flickered in the corner. A handful of patients were slouched in hard plastic chairs, dozing. Felix asked the duty nurse for the room number and made his way down the corridor.
The door was half-open. Low voices mixed with the canned laughter of a sitcom on TV. Mark was propped up in bed, looking surprisingly intact apart from the IV bottle hanging at his side. He grinned when he saw Felix—the kind of grin that said, "Look at me, suffering, and you came anyway."
"You should see what you look like," Felix said, settling onto the metal chair at the foot of the bed.
"Like a victim?" Mark gave the IV line a weak wag.
"Like an idiot."
From the far side of the bed, a woman lifted her head. Shoulder-length blonde hair, an even, natural face—none of the sharpened, filtered edges you see on social media. Just clean, healthy, the kind of girl you might see cheering for the local baseball team in a Midwestern town. Her eyes held a mix of curiosity and the sort of unforced warmth that comes with it.
"This is Felix, my colleague and a friend," Mark said.
"Hi." She offered her hand—her grip was unexpectedly firm.
"Hi." Felix returned the handshake, felt the warmth of her palm, then let go.
They traded a few lines of small talk—hospital food, how dangerous night-market snacks could be, how long Mark would be laid up. Felix never lingered long in that kind of atmosphere. He checked his watch and rose to leave.
The hallway outside was as still as a sealed chamber. His footsteps were softened by the waxed floor. He glanced at his phone—still a few hours before his night shift began. Outside, the rain had stopped, and a thin coolness moved in the air. He decided the trip hadn't been a waste.
He went home for a short rest. The night ahead would be long.
Night patrol in Los Angeles meant driving the streets until one or two in the morning, then returning to the station to rest in the duty room—unless dispatch sent a call. Given the city's crime rate, real sleep was a luxury.
By the time Felix set out, the night was deep, and the city had shifted. Los Angeles by day and by night were two different places. Daylight streets were sparsely populated; at night they filled to the brim.
It was mostly Black and Latino—Mexican and South American—residents. They lived by the creed: sleep in daylight, stir up trouble at night. As soon as darkness fell, they were out.
Small groups of Black youths drifted along the sidewalks in head-to-toe black with hoods pulled up. From a distance, they looked less like people than moving shadows.
If medieval Europe had seen more Black faces, Felix thought, the vampire myths might have been written about them—black-clad, white-toothed figures flashing grins in the dark.
In only a short span, he had to warn several men for urinating in the street, drinking in the middle of the road, tossing empty beer cans. The latter was especially bad—fatal collisions left behind blood-slick asphalt that was a nightmare to clean, and too many such cases came from drunk pedestrians.
He broke up a noisy argument between a group of drunks debating which actress was better—one praising his favorite's smoking, drinking, and tattoos as "pure fire," another swearing by someone with curves "to break your spine," a third bragging about being written into a singer's lyrics. It was about to turn into a fight before Felix told them to go home and deal with themselves.
There were also petty thieves, alleyway dealers, and streetwalkers. Felix wanted to make arrests, but they had lookouts—at the first sight of a patrol car, they scattered. After a few failed tries, he let it go. As long as they weren't making trouble out in the open, he'd wait for dispatch to hand him something concrete.
Temple City was half Chinese by population, even the mayor. But half of any population meant some part of it was out here at night causing trouble. Better not to be on the streets at all after dark.
Once he stopped chasing into alleys, the night quieted. Cruising the main roads with his light bar on scattered most people in sight. It was dull work, and the fatigue started creeping in.
Then came the radio: "Be on the lookout—silver-gray SUV, multiple red-light violations, speeding, failure to yield. Currently eastbound on Temple City Boulevard. Units in the area respond as able."
Felix's attention snapped into focus. He turned toward the call and had just reached Temple City Boulevard when the SUV shot past, four patrol cars in pursuit.
With that many on it already, did they need him? He hesitated—then saw a fifth unit join the chase.
They didn't need him, not really, but he followed anyway, the convoy streaming down the road.
Ten minutes. Twenty. Thirty. His patience wore thin. Switching to a side channel the night-shift officers favored for chatter, he keyed the mic:
"How long are we supposed to keep this up?"
"As long as we're in the city and can't PIT him, we just stick with it," Frank's voice came back. "He'll stop when he's out of gas or out of nerve."
"I'm already running low," another officer groused. "I'm over my fuel allowance—gonna have to pay out of pocket."
"That's on you, Antrim. Hauling your personal junk in the cruiser burns your budget."
"And you're any better? I saw you drive this thing to a massage parlor last week."
"Antrim, buddy, let's just both go gas up. I'll cover yours tonight."
The channel erupted in laughter.
Two units peeled off. Not long after, others joined the chase, ran a while, then dropped away again.
An hour passed like that. Felix's low-fuel light came on. He regretted not bowing out earlier—he could've been sitting somewhere in peace.
Too late now. He signaled out of the convoy and went hunting for a gas station.
He wasn't even sure where they'd chased to. After driving aimlessly for a while without finding one, he gave in and brought up the GPS.
The station he reached was busy—every pump occupied, the cashier booth lit with customers browsing the shelves inside.
Felix parked outside the lot to wait for a pump to clear.
A sedan rolled up from the opposite side, stopping on the far edge. A Black man got out, walked to the booth, paused at the doorway, then turned back to his car. Leaning in through the window, he spoke to the driver, gesturing toward the station.