The sun hammered down on the cracked asphalt of the boardwalk, baking the salt spray into a sticky film. For most, it was a day for ice cream and shade. For Sarah, it was a shift.
They didn't see the reinforced frame. They didn't notice the first-aid kit mounted like a saddlebag or the discreet radio antenna coiled near the seat. They certainly didn't see the way Sarah's eyes moved—constantly scanning, cataloging, remembering. trike patrol sarah
The teens grumbled but moved. The mom pushing the stroller gave a grateful nod. Sarah didn't nod back. She was already looking past them, toward the pier entrance where a man was shouting at no one. The sun hammered down on the cracked asphalt
She throttled forward, the trike whispering across the wood-planked ramp. The shouting man saw her coming—a solid figure in a navy polo, a badge glinting on her chest, sitting atop a machine that looked like a minivan and a mountain bike had a very practical baby. He deflated, turned, and walked away. They didn't see the reinforced frame