Chapter
One
I didn’t wakeup this morning with the intention of saving a man’s life. And a good thing, too, since there’s absolutely zero chance that he’ll listen to me when I try.
I don’t know who the man is. Never seen him before in my life. But I’d lay better than even odds that if I keep walking down Alistair Street, putting one of my purple-flowered Doc Martens in front of the other, soon enough he’ll show up. Brown hair, past due for a haircut. Lame graphic tee. Mack Weldon sweatpants, which cost more than I can afford to spend on groceries in a week. Fancy watch advertising that he’s slumming it in this outfit, for sure.
I don’t know his name. Where he lives. Where he’s coming from or where he intends to go. But I know one thing for sure: If I don’t manage to intercept him somehow, there’s no way in hell he’s getting there.
My phone buzzes, and I dig it out of the back pocket of my jeans. It’s Charlotte, of course. Who else would it be?
Charlotte
Where are you?
Charlotte
I’ve been sitting here for ten minutes. I grabbed the best table and now the dude with the Mohawk and the aggro twins are giving me the eye.
Charlotte
Are you alive, Rune? Should I drink your chai latte myself? Pour it in a potted plant? Call the police?
I could pause in pursuit of my quarry to answer her. But what if that makes the difference between the man’s life and his death?
He’s a stranger with bad fashion sense. I shouldn’t care whether he lives or dies. All I know is that Ido.
I was having such anicemorning. My favorite skinny jeans, the ones which even I can admit make my butt look good, were actually clean. My frizzy hair, for once, was behaving. The zit on my chin had disappeared. And I was on time to meet Charlotte at our favorite coffee shop, not running behind like usual. But three steps out the door, and I knew the man was going to die if I didn’t stop it. Now here I am, on the 8:00 a.m. train to Doomsville.
I shove my phone back into my pocket with difficulty and resign myself to dealing with Charlotte later. Maybe she was kidding about the potted plant. Although Charlotte is a lawyer. She doesn’t make careless threats.
What a horrible waste of my much-needed caffeine.
A moment later, I forget all about my chai latte. Because here I am, at the intersection of Alistair and Caneel. The familiarfeeling of inevitability is bearing down on me. I wish this time they would hear me. That they would listen.
They never do.
The light is about to change. I know it like I know my own name. I don’t see him, but he has to be here somehow. He must be.
They always are.
Twenty-one seconds to impact.
“Stop!” I shriek at the top of my lungs. “The—the bus…it’s going to lose control…stop!”
Ten heads swivel toward me. Ten people look at me like I’m crazy. A dude pushing a stroller gives me a disgusted glance and steers out of my way, giving me a wide berth. A grandma carrying a bag of apples clutches it to her chest, as if I might lunge at her like a rabid raccoon and snatch it away.
In my mind’s eye, I see it: the bag of apples breaking open, scattering all over the sidewalk. The dude with the stroller pausing to help. The grandma stepping into the street to retrieve the fallen fruit, right in the path of the bus. The driver’s pale face and wide eyes as he swerves to avoid her, right into the path of?—
Seventeen seconds to impact.
I have to save him. I have to stop it. Otherwise I will dream and dream and dream?—
I’m running now, pushing my way through the crowd, my breath rasping in my lungs. And here comes the bus, its air brakes squealing as it slows for the still-red light. My head turns left and right, looking for the guy, but he’s not here. He’s nowhere.
What the actual fuck.
In desperation, I double back toward Grandma and grab for the bag of apples. If I can stop them from falling, from rolling into the road, then maybe I can save him.
