I emerge from the Rivers and gaze at the glowing harbour, take a great gulp of air like I’m trying to swallow the sky and chew on its candied stars. Freedom sure tastes sweet.
I pause to watch the projection of the prime minister, addressing Sonaya from the pixilated wall of the National Bank. She has the kind of natural look people trust, one of the few elites who hasn’t filled her face with plastic. She’s changed a lot since I last saw her in person, but I guess that was a while ago. The fire in her eyes still blazes bright; I’d even call her attractive if it weren’t for the coffee-stain birthmark on her cheek. Some say it adds personality, others sympathy, but for me it’s only a reminder of a time I’d rather forget.
Her voice is husky, measured. She scrapes every s over her incisors a
