Magnus believed he could go any time. Nothing and no one was keeping him inside his ninth floor studio apartment in an upper Eastside high rise. He hadn’t had a good reason to leave since Hester moved out. On that day, he’d cinched up his fluffy robe, slipped on his flip flops and carried her heavy suitcases to the elevator and down to the lobby, even outside to the back of the waiting mega-drone. He’d lifted her luggage into the trunk, shut it, and slapped the top good-naturedly. That was seventeen years ago.
Celeste sat on the concrete stairs of the station. She was a little shaky; she didn’t dare try to stand. A minute ago, she was lying prone, the sharp edges of the steps digging into her head, back, hips and legs. There’d be nasty green and purple bruises tomorrow, she realized, but that was the least of her concerns.