53
Saturday morning. Halli wasn’t a superstitious person, but she wasn’t above following a ritual that seemed to work.
And since the last time she’d seen me—or really, felt me, heard me, there inside that same body and brain—was the Saturday before, it made sense to try to duplicate all the same conditions.
So she wore the same clothes. Wore the same sneakers, even though she’d bought new ones in the meantime. Left the house as close to the time she thought she’d left it before. Bent over to retie one of the shoes. Then took her first step toward setting off on a run.
Nothing.
She backed up, leaned over, untied and retied that shoe, then took a big leap forward, as if maybe she hadn’t emphasized it enough before, hadn’t been dramatic enough.
Still nothing.
So. There it was. That had
