The first thing Amelia feels is the pressure in her ears.
It is that slow, uncomfortable tightening that comes when the cabin begins to depressurize, when gravity reminds you that you are returning to the ground whether you are ready or not. The cabin lights glow softly, dimmed for the late arrival but beginning to pulse with a low, electric life as the descent steepens. The murmur of voices from the other passengers drifts around her like a distant, receding tide.
She blinks her eyes open, her lashes heavy with the residue of a shallow, fitful sleep.
For a moment, she forgets the state of the world. She expects to see the peeling floral wallpaper of her bedroom back home or hear the distant, muffled thud of the club's bass through the floorboards. Then Iris shifts beside her, groan
