Jul. 12th, 2021

crossmyheartandhope: Are flung wide (So long as all your doors)
The street stretches away below them like some city planner once dreamed of designing roller coasters: impossibly steep, lined on either side by buildings with quaint windows, all done up in pastels.

There’s a cafe packed with tourists that’s showing some sports match on all the vid screens, and a hotel that’s supposed to be stupid expensive. Cars glide past, electric and soundless; pigeons line the rooftop of the building across the way.

The view out to the harbor’s kind of awesome from here, but Hurricane’s not looking at the view.

He’s sitting in a shopping cart, cross-legged, twisted around backward to look up at his sister. He’s perhaps six years old, a gangly bean sprout of a boy with uncombed hair in sandy blond and a face full of freckles.

His sister’s got one foot on the bottom of the cart, and she’s holding onto the handle. She looks like him: same freckles; hair slightly paler but still uncombed, pulled back in a sloppy ponytail; same grin, wide and bright and excited. She is perhaps fifteen years old, in a tank top and battered bluejeans.

“You ready for this?” says Michaela.
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