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An EMT.
St. Louis. Twenty twenty-five. October twenty-second.

Accidents are mirrors in motion. Broken windshields, cracked side glass, fragments that hold on to the last thing they saw.

We pulled up to a rollover on the interstate. Driver alive, dazed, bleeding. I checked him, asked questions. He kept glancing at the smashed glass glittering around us.

I followed his eyes. Each shard showed something wrong. Not me crouched over him. Not my partner waving traffic. Other faces. Dozens. Pressed close. Watching.

He whispered, “Don’t let them in.”

I swept the glass aside, but the shards clung. Sticky as honey. Cold as ice. I washed my hands twice back at the station. Still felt the fingerprints.