The morning is neither morning nor night, but some freeze-dried interval in between. Olivia stands in the doorway of her own apartment and breathes in a lungful of air so thin it tastes like paper. For a long second she holds it there, letting her ribs rattle, before shoving both hands into the deep pockets of her coat and slamming the door closed behind her. The lock’s metallic click is a gunshot in the predawn hush.
She doesn’t know where she’s going. That is the point.
She walks. Head down. Shoulders squared against the wind, which drags a film of dust and road salt across her boots. The air is mean and colorless. Her hair is smashed flat on one side from the pillow; she leaves it that way. She tells herself she’s on an errand, maybe, or a rescue mission, or fleeing a crime scene. Any
