They still remember the first week by its sounds: rotors chopping the sky, the low hum of idling engines at 3 a.m., the sharp bark of commands echoing off rowhouse brick. For some, it was the first time in years they walked to the metro without clutching their keys like weapons. For others, it was the first time they rehearsed what to say if a loved one never came home

The numbers told one story: fewer robberies, fewer carjackings, fewer shots fired. But the silences told another—empty desks at schools, shuttered storefronts in immigrant corridors, conversations that stopped the moment a patrol rolled past. Washington learned that “safe” could mean lit streets and fast response times, yet still feel like living under occupation. In the end, the city’s deepest wound wasn’t just fear of crime or government. It was realizing safety had been redefined without its consent.