It was easy for her to keep a low profile, most of the time. A solitary, middle-aged female. No distinguishing characteristics. Minds her own business. What’s there to notice?
It guaranteed her the worst seats in the finest restaurants.
No one remembered her unremarkable visage when she shoplifted for sport.
And no one noticed that morning on the train when she inexplicably erupted into tears, when the heaviness got the best of her.
They tore through the aquarium.
Clown fish! Boring!
Octopus! Can we get one?
They swerved in and out of the crowds of people, completing the 90-minute tour in 17 minutes.
She was inexplicably awake and it was still dark outside. The big, hairy spider — almost the width of her bed — loomed over her on the bedroom ceiling.
It spoke to her telepathically, in a British accent, which sounded fake to her for some reason.
“I want you,” the Spider spoke, “to remember every embarrassing thing you’ve ever done since fifth grade.”
After the accident, the entire area, for a 10-mile radius, was paved over in concrete, so the buildings looked semi submerged coming out of the ground. Even the dead bodies of the trapped locals were covered. Wasteland was an abandoned concrete tomb.
Charlie made soap for a living and owned three shirts. He smelled like potential.
Here she was, in the dead of night.
In one of the safest neighbourhoods in the city.
Eye-to-eye with an unflinching and mythically large coyote.
This was not a coyote-sized coyote.
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