After Timothy left my place to catch his flight to the District, I dig out the note Emilian gave me from my backpack.
Some dreams I don’t understand.
This is when men’s word spells work the fastest—when I’m melting.
That was her, I swear. I can feel it. Everything happened so fast.
With every passing minute not knowing my grade, I die a little inside.
Each shake and shudder of Flight 817 invokes memories of her seven-year-old son’s toothy grin.