There were five faces pressed against the windows of the taxi as it sped past. Susan looked at them without really looking, only left with an image sitting there in the night, Polaroid-bleached, long after the vehicle had passed.
She returned her gaze to that big pulsing moon, which tonight was a cracked heel, a blister, in the air. Beneath it, old-fashioned clouds were building—childhood billow-busters with lightning at their hearts.
There was smoke somewhere very near, thick as fists, scratchy as matchsticks. Susan held one hand with her other, safe in the cave of her jumper pocket. She walked on.