Later, as dusk bled orange over the city, the tuktukpatrol parked on the roof of an abandoned mall. They ate cold samosas and watched the river of headlights below.
The rogue driver, a burly man with a gold chain and a permanent scowl, saw the canary-yellow tuktuk pull up perpendicular to his path. His eyes widened. He knew that color. tuktukpatrol
Kajal’s fingers flew. “I see them. Driver ID 8842. Repeat offender. He’s circling the block. His meter is wired to a music box—the faster the beat, the faster it spins.” Later, as dusk bled orange over the city,