An old man glanced furtively from side to side, then stumped across the hallway. The wheels on his walker squeaked across gray linoleum. He reached the door marked “utility closet” and rapped twice, paused, then knocked three times. He waited. He glanced left and right, muttered something under his breath, and lifted his hand to knock again.
he table, gulping OJ and squirting lime juice onto a 1-inch-high stack of sugared crepes.
my feet as I walk. I’m wading deeper. Liquid slides up my shins, my knees, my thighs. I gasp as it hits my stomach. I splay my arms as it sweeps over my breasts. It sloshes against my neck. I’m swimming.
Her hands had never failed her before. With them she’d wielded the jegun blade in battle among the stars. With them she’d climbed the falling trees of Dong’ea Sulai, felled a shrieking falcon, and plucked maika wool. She’d always trusted her hands.
Eevy Menkos licked her finger and jabbed it skyward. Her tongue flicked between her lips. Her eyes narrowed in concentration. Then she yipped, kicked her heels together and took a running leap over the rosebush. She skidded left and right along the path. The patio door banged shut behind her.
Wind blew along the corridors, crackling with heat. It snuck moisture from the bricks. In its wake it left the crinkled skeletons of once-green ivy. A girl stumbled along with the wind. Tears and snot wet her cheeks and upper lip, transforming into salt-crusted trails as the wind dried them.