Crushed under a bus: what a way to go. This wasn’t how Cam’s day was supposed to play out, although he’d stopped expecting much of anything—good, anyway—a long time ago. The morning had started like any other: hot run, bike whizzing through the cars and taxis like they were standing still, back to Lonnie for another pickup. As usual, Cam had sailed right through the wide door at the front, past the other messengers jockeying for a pickup. “You got a run?” one of them asked Lonnie. It was probably Mitchell—sounded whiny enough to be him. But Cam didn’t stop to find out. “I got a run for Cam,” Lonnie shot back, and held up the slip. “Express run. Uptown. I need . . .” But Cam had already grabbed the slip. He was back on the pavement, legs pumping, air rushing past him as he pedaled. Cam put in his earbuds and cued up some music on his phone. The volume was cranked to the max, but he could still hear the sounds of the traffic he sailed through.
