Later, in circumstances that Sharon Li would certainly have frowned upon, the entire balance of reality is about to be pushed off the bungee.
Soft cloth drags on carpet.
A door closes in the night.
Flicker of shadow across a door.
Sound of falling.
She says, “They’ll find you they’ll find you you have to get out now!”
Her voice is a gabble of forced breath, sandpaper in the throat, glass in the lungs.
A finger of wind commanding silence.
“Oh God.”
A brush of something soft against rapidly cooling skin, a whisper of sound that has no words, nor has ever felt the need.
“Let me live.”
Paper stirs across the floor.
Something…
… changes.
She says, “No. That isn’t what I—”
And she dies.