In the recess of a shop doorway stood the man Jem tried to see. All trace of colour had bled from his face when he"d seen Jem in the crowd; his whole body seemed to drain of blood and be replaced with ice cold water when she"d been knocked down. Unable to reach her across the street before she was surrounded by people, he"d been left with no choice but to fight for broken images through the crowd as he struggled to get closer. When she tried to sit up, looking embarrassed but unhurt, he"d breathed again and the chill in his body warmed. She"d been grasping at eyes, faces in the crowd, and he wondered if she was looking for him.
He raised his hand absentmindedly to touch the worn and folded postcard that lived in his breast pocket. He didn"t need to look at it to know what faded words were
