Eleven
We step out of the faerie paths into the alley between Tygo’s Diner and the abandoned library. The intense familiarity of it—the graffiti on the walls, the stench of garbage, the damp, gritty ground beneath my shoes—is disorienting. For a moment, it feels as though I never left. It could have been yesterday that I stood here selling one of Chelsea’s homemade herbal remedies to Slade Murphy after my shift in the diner’s kitchen. Yet at the same time, it feels as if a lifetime has passed between then and now.
“Em? Come on.”
I blink, shake my head, and follow Calla to the end of the alley, pulling the backpack’s second strap onto my other shoulder as I go. It’s brighter out in the main street, but still difficult to tell what time of day it is. Clouds gather in the sky, darker along
