David Brown stares at what might be his thousandth corpse and realizes something in him has broken beyond repair. The body is just a body, a collection of pieces jumbled together; the face is nothing but abstract shapes with all the emotional resonance of an electrical outlet. He is tired — he is always tired, bone weary, overworked, strung out, burned out, and recovering — but this is more than that. He is beyond numbness, beyond caring. Death is not even a professional interest anymore.
He casually finishes his apple, hands his badge to his ashen, sweating partner, and walks out of the room, out of the building, out of the life. He emails his resignation letter from the bus, leaves his phone and wallet under the seat when he gets off somewhere far away from the coast, hitchhikes south, sleeping rough in ditches and ducked down in the booths of all night diners.
Where he’s going, he doesn’t know, but he’s done. He’s done.