Coming around the front of the school bus I heard what seemed like a hundred strangers calling for my attention. The sun glinted off the windows of news vans, and the white glimmer off of sunglasses in the crowd made me think of people crowded together in a bright desert, beholding some super-shiny partially uncovered UFO long buried in the earth.
I kept moving towards the driveway. I didn’t want to sprint, not with cameras recording. Part of me hobbled that need, not wanting to look scared, not wanting to look like the stuck-up celebrity by default of having a celebrity in the family. But oh, did I want to sprint.
A scream ripped through the air.
A man had bolted from the crowd, the deputy reaching for him, but it was too late.
The man had wiry black hair, glasses, and his hands were stuck straight out in front of him. A spiral bound notebook was clutched in his right hand.
His legs did a funny kick step thing like his legs were partially restrained by leg braces.
I slowed down. I couldn’t help it.
The man muttered to himself. He had a red face and looked incensed like I’d broken a promise or his heart and every transgression was noted in the blue Mead notebook, the especially egregious examples marked by a sticky note.
There were a lot of sticky notes.
Lucid cover sketch courtesy Jenny Dayton.
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