Free Flight by Lindsay Leggett Page A

for a walk to clear my head. The sun is performing its final yawn, leaving the sky a soft, dusky purple. The buildings on the outside are ravaged from war; broken down, pilfered, and infected by newly growing weeds and ivy wrapping itself around broken glass windows. I take a deep breath of the cool, fresh air and it feels like it’s the first real breath I’ve taken in years, not indoors or underground, even if muffled by a radiation mask.
    I stride slowly through the burnt-out city, taking time to observe the smallest details; the growing cracks in the faded concrete, the shambles of metal girders and crumbling steel hanging from the edges of buildings. It’s these details that make all the difference in the end. In battle; in life. It’s not the name or shape of someone that holds fast to our minds, it’s the breath, the embarrassed blush, the uncontrolled laughter at an inside joke. The smells, even the arguments about nothing, these are what we remember. The details are all that remains of David.
    I exhale as I brush my boots through the scattered ruins of what was once a house. Even with everything else going on, I still can’t chase these thoughts out of my head. I’ve run halfway across the country, and still the past follows me. My head shoots up at the peal of a high-pitched giggle. I look around and see nothing, but then I hear it again; the laughter of a child. I crouch low and follow the noise, trying to remain as silent as possible.
    Turning the corner of an old street, I’m stuck still momentarily at the sight of the little girl with pigtails. She nearly glows in the moonlight, a bright grin lining her face.
    “Hey, kid!” I shout, bursting into a jog toward her. She giggles again and hops off through the rubble. I spit in frustration and run in pursuit. There’s something strange about this girl, something not quite right. I need to know who she is and why she’s stalking me. I run until I no longer see or hear her, until all that’s left is the ghost of the wind weaving throughout the city.
    I take my bearings and note that I’m standing beneath what used to be an apartment building. It’s fairly small in stature and is mostly intact. Each segment features a tiny balcony that seems like it’s just for decoration. Really, sometimes I question the sanity of the people before the war. Then, I gasp as a light flicks on in a room on the upper level of the building. There’s no way someone could still be living out here. The radiation levels alone are enough to cause serious illness, if not death, and who would want to be out here anyway?
    Maybe it’s the girl. I know I should probably radio in to Grier or Myra, but I decide to keep matters to myself. If it’s the girl, I want to know what’s been going on, without any bureaucratic interference. I walk through the front door—which is really just an opening since the door’s been blasted away—and locate the top apartment on the fire escape map. Of course, the elevator is out-of-order, so begrudgingly I sprint up the stairs, huffing for air by the time I reach the top floor, face to face with the door that leads to the lit room.
    I open the door hesitantly, unsure of what I’m going to find inside. In my mind I’m picturing a variety of outcomes, from teenagers making out to a bloody axe-murderer licking his chops. It’s like that old game show. Behind door number one is a brand new car, but the other two doors swarm with man-eating locusts. At least in my game show, those are the outcomes. I hold my breath as I push the door open, and am surprised when instead of my worst nightmare, it’s Asher Owen inside, sitting placidly on a battered old couch, reading.
    His focuses on me as I enter, blue eyes narrowed in contemplation and his body hunched forward in a fight or flight stance. I throw my hands up in a gesture of peace.
    “Uh, sorry,” I mutter, standing awkwardly at the door. He looks me up and down, like he’s sizing me.
    “What