The Velocity of Grief
The morning the green Tesla killed its third driver, I received three phone calls before seven a.m. The first was from Captain Reyes, who spoke precisely eight words—"It happened again and it's my fault"—before the line went dead. The second was from the NYPD press office, asking if I was still available for freelance security consulting. The third was from a woman in Albany whose name I didn't...
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