LYRA’S POV
The sound of the fourth-period warning bell was still ringing in my ears as I practically threw myself down the concrete steps of the south wing.
Every minute after dismissal was a calculation of pure logistics. I ran through the main gates of Garrison Heights, the stiff wool of my uniform blazer chafing against my neck, and didn’t stop moving until I hit the gravel transit turnout. The valley bus was already idling, its exhaust coughing out thick, gray diesel smoke that smelled entirely of the flats. I squeezed into a middle row, my canvas backpack jammed between my knees, my eyes tracking the digital clock on my terminal screen as the vehicle began its steep, braking descent down the mountain switchbacks.
Thirty-two minutes. That was the absolute limit of my transit window.
