THE DRY CRACKLE OF THE EMERGENCY FLARE

Dear Delyara, To mark a deep pothole and a oil spill on the dark bend leading to the estate, an officer struck an emergency flare and dropped it on the asphalt. The dry, sizzling hiss of the burning chemical magnesium filled the entire lane, casting a harsh, crimson glow over the wet brick walls. It smelled intensely of sulfur and saltpeter—the literal scent of an emergency. Walking past it on my mandatory check-round, the red light made my shadow look thirty feet tall against the side of the warehouse. It felt like a visual manifestation of the internal urgency I carry every night—a burning, bright signal that says something important is happening here in the dark.