Miles Ransom was walking down Jefferson Avenue one afternoon that had nothing special about it, and maybe that was exactly what made it dangerous. Great disasters do not always arrive with storms, sirens, or signs in the sky. Sometimes they come with heat stuck to the sidewalks, with a half empty wallet, with a city that smells like frying oil, exhaust, and tired people, and with a man in his early thirties trying to convince himself he still had some control over his life.