50
The night is perfect, and I shouldn’t be so content.
The ambient light from downtown Detroit and the distant light from the jail combine to make the railbed a ghostly gray river of pebbles next to us. Switchgrass hisses against my shins. Guns normally mean failure, but for this gig the weight of the MP-7 over my shoulder reassures me. Familiar shapes in every pocket shift with every step. The uncomfortably warm air feels bloated with humidity and pollen and a hint of industrial smoke. Did I use my sinus spray today? I must have, or I’d be sneezing like a fiend. I have the night vision goggles ready, but they won’t help me yet. The ground is still cooling from its long afternoon bake, and the goggles would only show a shifting sea of switchgrass. The only sound is the distant hum of tr
