door.
Karl has touched schizophrenics, paranoiacs, autistics—lucid in their warp, bathed in the scalding ice of delusion. This isn't like that. This is concrete against incisor, nothing nebulous about it. Real, immediate, close, very close. He remembers the satchel, turns back to see it, and understands. Wondering how long he has, he finds Romy waiting by the elevator.
"Big deal." Sam excavates with a forefinger. "What was all that about?"
Time crawling, Karl forces himself to move. Deaf, nearly blind, tunnel vision clamping down, he passes the bag to run up behind her in air gone to molasses, taking her about the waist without slowing, lifting her against his hip e