"Disregard the second one," he said into the radio. "Just the one."
"Copy. Stand by."
They stood there. The wind came up the hill and moved the maple leaves over their heads, and a few came down, yellow and red, and one landed on the shoulder of his uniform and stayed there. Down at the gate the first of the walker parents were gathering, a grandfather with a cane and a young mother with a stroller and two teenage brothers in hoodies of their own, and the young mother was looking at Brooke and the cop and then quickly looking away, the way people looked away from a car accident. The car line had backed all the way down Fifth Street.
"Fourteen."
"Go ahead."
"Fourteen, return on your female. Valid Ohio operator's license, issued nine thirty of this year, address is a P.O. box in Columbus. No prior licenses on file under that name. No wants, no warrants, no history."
"Copy," he said. "Thank you." He let go of the mic and looked at her, and his voice when he spoke was quiet and almost wondering, as though he had come across something in his yard that he could not identify. "Nine thirty. That's nine days ago. As far as the state of Ohio is concerned, Ms. Garvey, you didn't exist until a week ago Wednesday."
"I know."
"That doesn't worry you? That doesn't strike you as something I might find a little unusual?"
"It strikes me," Brooke said, "as the whole point."