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beeper sounded; a car backfired in the distance. Tracie turned at the sound of it.
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    Screams ripped through the late afternoon, slicing through the stillness of the day, as a young man was hurled from a rooftop. His body hung suspended in slow motion for a fraction of a second, and then he plunged straight down, hitting the concrete with a dull thud. He lay with his neck broken and twisted.
    When the screams sliced through the air, Sinead Watson looked up to see a body hurtling toward her with startling speed. It landed directly at her feet.
    Sinead found she couldn’t breathe. She reached for her inhaler to control the oncoming asthma attack. She fumbled to get it to her mouth, then took long gulps.
    The body lay at an odd angle on the sidewalk. The neck was twisted, the eyes wide open. The expression was frozen in helpless terror. Sinead trembled violently.
    Suddenly, 135 th Street and Malcolm X Boulevard was alive with confusion. People ran. Traffic was stopped in the street. A symphony of screams sang through the late afternoon air.
    Across the street, in front of The Schomberg Center for Research in Black Culture, Souljah Boy watched the unfolding scene. His right eye twitched rapidly. Whenever something bad happened or was about to happen, his right eye always twitched.
    A screaming, noisy crowd gathered around the body. A young man pushed his way through the confusion. Souljah Boy glanced up at the rooftop. He caught a glimpse of a profile, but it was barely discernible.
    He shaded his eyes from the bright sunlight. Still he couldn’t make out who it was from where he was standing.
    Police and ambulance sirens sounded nearby. Andre Burlingame, Tracie’s eighteen year old son, better known as Dre, the Image Maker, for his outstanding shots in photography, stepped in the middle of the action. Souljah Boy spotted his approach from across the street.
    Dre was an intensely serious young man who exuded raw male confidence and a sort of graceful nonchalance in his tall, lanky frame. He had a camera case slung over his shoulder. He wildly clicked off pictures of the scene.
    Excitement and adrenalin raced through his body. He loved it when he was in the right place at the right time. He would capture the image that had set 135 th Street on fire. He would add another history-making shot to his already bulging portfolio.
    Dre knew he would have the first shots, which would be shown on the evening news as well as in the Amsterdam newspaper. As luck would have it, he had been right there. His would be the first shots they saw.
    His heart raced at his good fortune. The camera whirred. He clicked off shots in quick succession. Before a person could say, “Boo,” Dre had snapped up the entire unfolding drama.
    The streets were pure madness. People were screaming, hollering and crying. This only served to pump Dre to his peak while he clicked away, storing the horrifying portrayals on film.
    Elbowing his way through the crowd, Dre reached the body on the ground for the supreme close-up. One click, the bulb flashed, and the camera slid down from his eyes as he looked down.
    Shocked disbelief flashed across his handsome features. Slowly he dropped to his knees next to the body. A wail of electrifying pain burst forth from his lips. It echoed through the crowded street.
    â€œRandi!”
    An icy coldness replaced the excitement and adrenalin pumping through his bloodstream. Randi Burlingame was his brother. This wasn’t some news item lying on the ground, broken and crumpled. This was his brother, his baby brother.
    The only frame Dre could capture was the frozen expression on Randi’s face. It swam in front of his eyes, as if encased in water. Dre’s body had become statue-like. It was as though someone had thrown him into wet concrete. He couldn’t move.
    Souljah Boy, on hearing Dre shout out Randi’s name, shot into action, running across the street. He was Dre’s best friend. It