It started with a photographer who had clearly been tipped off and a black SUV that was three blocks from where it should have been.
We were leaving a restaurant on the lower west side, the kind of dinner that was on Cassian's schedule for appearances and had become, over the weeks, something I actually looked forward to, and the photographer was not alone this time. There were four of them, positioned at the restaurant's exit with the coordinated efficiency of people who had been told where to be and when, and they hit us the moment the door opened.
Lucien's hand closed around mine. We moved. Not running, Lucien did not run from things, but fast and deliberate and without discussion, around the corner and then the next corner, and the photographers were faster than expected because they
