Without thinking too much about it, Lacrosse leans out the window and squeezes off a couple of bullets toward the black and whites chasing them. “Hit anything?” says Dextrose, not seriously, just making conversation.

“Nah,” says Lacrosse. “Movin’ around too much. Be more surprised if I hit something.”

“Yeah,” says Dextrose, and slams the car off a wall and down an alleyway. The black and whites come slicing through the cloud of mortar dust, blue lights running up the fire escapes. Lacrosse pops a few more rounds at them but they’ve figured him out now, and the cops hanging on to the running boards are firing back. “Hold on!”

They crash through a fruit stand and Lacrosse snags a peach out of the air. “Farmer’s market’s runnin’ late this year,” he notes, and bites into it. “Peach?”

“I can’t stand those things. It’s the fuzz, I think.”

“Your loss. Damn good fruit.” The juice is caught in his beard, along with grease from the eggs and pieces of dry toast. “Bridge’s up,” he notes.

“Yeah,” says Dextrose. “We’ll see.”

He floors it up the rising side and their tires slip and skid as the bridge approaches the vertical. When the car tips free and they lift up against the seatbelts, Lacrosse reaches across the stickshift. They’re holding hands when they land on the six black and whites, fingers locked together even after the seats have gone spinning across the highway.