Sixteen
I’m flying. The wind tears at my wig and the trees shrink as we speed across the sky toward the stars. Good thing my phobia has nothing to do with heights. As my eyes water and air is dashed away before I can even attempt to breathe it, I raise my hands and fashion a shield in front of my face. An invisible layer starting at the edge of the carriage roof in front of me, rising up over my head, and ending at the back of my neck. It’s flexible, moving as I move, so I push myself up onto my elbows and take a good look below me. I memorize every landmark I can make out. A winding river; a hill over there and another one on this side; a lake flowing into a smaller lake, which flows into an even smaller lake, all three surfaces as smooth as glass.
As the moon climbs higher and time pas
