I’m stranded in the dead city. The street is bare; behind me, a dumped car burns in a ring of rubbish, heat licking my back. The sky is red, dust stinging my eyes as I search for a way out.
I turn into a side alley. A feral dog is on a woman; a wet snarl, then stillness. I look up. The sun blazes—and for a heartbeat, a green crescent slips behind the light. I move.
I continue down the road, taking the first corner to my left. To my right, a basketball court. I see a large man standing over another. As I run past, I hear gunshots crack, echoing off wire and concrete. I keep the sun at my shoulder and move.
Around the next corner, I press my back against a cold brick wall as I reach into my jeans pocket. I unfold a note, cryptic letters, the letter T stamped on the bottom-right; I turn it over, “Wait for conjunction”, a sketch of a sun, and a crescent body, beneath that, a map of the city — I run.
