They huddled around the prosthesis, the uniforms and their rumpled Chief. He sipped java. The plaza warmed.
Black shoe. White sock. Leather socket. Abandoned.
“Maybe someone forgot it?” Amos yawned, scratching what passed for stubble.
“Unlikely.” The Chief hiked his jeans back up, against his protruding belly. No time for protocol this morning—or a belt.
Amanda’s beefy arms folded. “Forgot their own foot?” she scoffed.
“Exactly.” The Chief panned the scene. Tourists were moving closer.
“Pack it up! You,” he nodded to Amos. “Comb the area.”
Amos raised his eyes, wide with fear.
“You don’t think it’s…?”
Sigh. “I do.”