after coffee
Standing on the corner, tapping my foot and looking at the lighted red hand. Across four lanes of rush hour traffic from me, a toddler ran away from his blonde business-casual mother. From the sidewalk, out onto the asphalt, with a fast, blue car flying through the intersection.
The baby's short legs carried it too slowly to intersect the car's bumper, but the mother only stretched her arms towards him from the corner, and the blue car maintained its heading and velocity. "That kid almost just died," I thought, as the car escaped. Seconds later, the mother casually regathered her child, and headed away from me down the hill. She covered about 10 meters and then she suddenly crumpled, dropping to her knees in front of her child, glaring and lecturing in a trembling voice. She hadn't blinked her eyes by the time I stepped past her, and her words were continuous and incomprehensible.

About 20 yards later, I started freaking out. I turned back to check on them, but they were gone.