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the tattered strip of yellow canvas caught in the crumpled metal framework.
    â€œAn accident,” I said lightly. I am usually impatient with gawkers who stop to eyeball the misery of others. I have an excuse to be there; it’s my job. But something about his voice, or maybe his big eyes and curly hair, suggested he might be more than just a curious passerby.
    â€œWhat kind of accident?” His tone became more urgent.
    I stepped away from my car and approached his. If he was who I suspected he was, I didn’t want to be the one to tell him.
    â€œMy little daughter has a stroller like that one,” he said.
    Fear had begun to grow in his eyes. He gripped the steering wheel.
    â€œThere’s been an accident over at the mall,” I said.
    â€œAt the mall?” He looked confused. “How did that get here?”
    â€œIt was dragged under a car. But I think the baby is fine,” I quickly added.
    â€œMy God! How could she be?”
    â€œShe flew out, in her car seat,” I said gently.
    He looked numb.
    â€œThere are a lot of baby strollers. This one probably isn’t yours.” I tried to sound reassuring.
    He didn’t seem to hear. A car honked behind him. He didn’t seem to hear that either.
    â€œI was supposed to meet them at the mall exit by the bus stop.” His voice was controlled, as though trying not to panic. “They weren’t there yet, so I came to pick up the dry cleaning. I’m going back for them now.”
    â€œWho were you picking up?”
    He glanced sharply at me, as if wondering who I was. “Britt Montero,” I said, “from the Miami News . I’m covering the accident.”
    â€œMy wife, my little boy, and my baby girl. They’re at the mall,” he repeated.
    It was him. Cringing inwardly, I dug in my pocket for a business card and handed it over.
    â€œI saw a lot of flashing lights inside the parking lot when I went by.” He stared past me, at the policeman. “I kept going.” A terrible awareness was overtaking him.
    â€œThey may have been involved,” I said quietly. “If there is anything I can do to help, please call me. Stay here, and I’ll ask the officer to notify Detective Rakestraw. He can give you all the details.”
    â€œNo,” he said, suddenly moved to action. “I’m going back there. My wife must be scared to death. The baby, and Jason—”
    â€œNo, wait,” I said, as he shifted into reverse. “Don’t. It’s better if you stay here and—” But he was gone.
    Tires squealing, the Buick shot across two lanes of traffic to turn east, back toward the mall.
    â€œHe doesn’t know,” I told the patrolman, who had left his car and joined me. “That’s the husband and father of the victims.” He radioed Rakestraw that next of kin was on the way, scared and unaware.
    Traffic had snarled into a worse tangle back at the mall as heavy chopper blades beat against the growing dusk, rising slowly, hovering noisily over the roadway. The man who had been driving the Buick sat in the passenger seat of Rakestraw’s unmarked. The car had been repositioned so the occupant could not see the accident scene. When Rakestraw emerged, clipboard in hand, I approached him. “He’s the husband?”
    The detective nodded and asked an older policeman to join the man in the car. “I don’t want to leave him sitting there alone,” he said, turning to me. His deep-set eyes, shadowed and weary, flicked to his notes. “Name is Jason Carey.”
    â€œWhat did you tell him?”
    â€œHe wanted to know where his wife was.” Rakestraw glanced toward the darkening sky, which had swallowed the flashing lights of the chopper. “They were just taking off when he got here. I feel so sorry for the guy. Gave him what I could. Told him his boy had expired. That his wife is critical and on the way to the trauma