By Scott Holleran
Kit leaned forward to read the sign as the car pulled up to the terminal. Her mind reeled on how to say goodbye. The car idled — motor running, doors opening, cold air rushing in — and Kit stepped out, pulling a small, red suitcase out of the backseat. She composed herself, pausing before turning around.
“Be good to yourself,” she said warmly.
She gave a quick hug and lingered over the luggage, watching the car pull away. Standing between curbside and the terminal, Kit shivered and took one last look at the car heading back to the city. Scanning distant and familiar sights she’d once associated with home, Kit felt lighter. She felt more alone. This is it, she thought, I’m on my own.
Within minutes, Kit was reminded that this was not entirely true when she arrived at long, coiling lines at a government checkpoint. Here, Kit waited for state approval to travel as an airline passenger. After waiting to show identification and documents, she waited to submit her property for inspection, one of many passengers and crew forced into what resembled a mass detention of blank, joyless faces.
Courtesy of Grok AI
This made Kit feel uneasy, though she did not yet know why. Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, she waited to enter a body scanner. When her turn came, Kit’s heart raced. She felt a stab of fear.
When Kit stepped out of the body scanning machine, she was tense but relieved and instantaneously felt a new onset of anxiety as she faced three guards standing in front of her. To Kit, they were like gargoyles; ugly, useless and immovable. Another unwanted inspection, she thought, indicating more waiting — to retrieve her own property — and submit to revulsion.
Straightening her skirt against her trim frame, Kit suddenly felt as if something monstrous loomed over her existence. Slipping between a spindly and a meaty guard, under the squinty watch of an obese guard, she made way toward recovery of her possessions, catching sight of the faces in the snaking, compliant herd standing in line.
Kit was struck by their mass but unnerved by their silence. Moving away from the central checkpoint, she pondered people’s complicity in this invasive routine. As she exited the area, braced for the threat of any random agent coming to probe, stop or detain her, it occurred to Kit that here was some evidence at last that people could “all get along”, if it meant communal shuffling toward the arbitrary inspection of a travel cop.
Kit had decided that it wasn’t merely the waiting she hated. Waiting to be inspected was tedious, indecent and humiliating, she thought. This only made the passengers’ silence bother her more. Kit knew that most obeyed because they accepted that this ritual somehow made everyone feel secure, though she knew that the opposite is true: the process decimates personal security.
Kit exited the checkpoint perimeter unscathed — and she relaxed. But she felt dirty, violated and guilty. Entering the area for passengers to board flights, rolling the small, red suitcase and carrying a purse and overnight bag, the area past the checkpoint was crowded. She noticed that most passengers grumbled, fidgeted and sulked. The single overriding characteristic she noticed among them was that no one was at ease. Everyone was on guard.
Courtesy of Grok AI
As if physical effort could soothe her, Kit took faster strides toward her gate. But she couldn’t shake the idea that the inspection had contaminated everyone’s travel experience: a mother escorting her son, newlyweds cuddling against a wall, the glum college-bound kid — two befuddled old men — a hyperactive family taking a first vacation.
Amid an aroma of jet fuel, glaring lights and hissing engines, Kit noticed that even outwardly cheerful passengers’ eyes darted. Blank faces, she observed, stared at screens. Only once, when Kit spotted a happy child raise an arm, point and shriek at the sight of an airplane ascending into the sky was she jolted into remembering a time not long ago when the prospect of travel was marvelous.
Rounding a corner with eyes on her point of departure, Kit thought that there must be others who noticed the doldrums. She wondered why so many let childlike enthusiasm come to an end. They did this, she concluded upon reaching the gate, which was filled to capacity with travelers, without any attempt to preserve a sense of wonder.
Kit boarded the airplane when her turn came, shifting luggage from one shoulder to the other as mildly disgruntled passengers shoved luggage into overhead spaces (or imposed on others to do this on their behalf) before stuffing and wiggling themselves into cramped seats. Kit claimed hers, too, belting herself into an aisle seat. She drew a deep breath. Kit exhaled.
Kit then closed her eyes. She had started to unwind when something bumped her knee. Her eyelids slowly lifted.
“Please, pardon me,” said a woman nudging past Kit’s knees with a large purse. Kit sensed something unusual about her. The woman looked benign but pained. Her face was ruddy and taut. Kit smiled, inclined her head and moved her knees to the side. The woman took the window seat next to Kit.
The jet rose after the pre-flight routine. Passengers chattered. During the climb, Kit gripped the armrest, glancing at her seatmate, who sat staring out the window. When the plane reached cruising altitude, the woman pulled the shade down.
For a while, engines hummed, call buttons dinged and Kit drifted into semi-slumber. She stirred when the plane pitched up. She was vaguely aware that the ‘fasten seatbelt’ sign came back on. The aircraft shuddered a short time later. The fuselage vibrated. The plane dropped, stabilized, then pitched up again. The fuselage shook. This time, the plane kept shaking.
As it did, the woman in the window seat slowly turned toward Kit. Their eyes met. Neither showed a sense of alarm. Both wordlessly conveyed alertness, not panic. The loudspeaker crackled.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” a voice said, “this is the captain. As you may have noticed, we’re experiencing a disturbance. We are in complete control of the aircraft, however, I am sorry to report that we detect a small hole about the size of a watermelon near the bottom of the aircraft. I’m lowering altitude and may request a return to the airport as a precaution. We are assessing and reporting damage. I’ve asked the crew to prepare in case of an emergency landing. Now, I’m sure you’re all concerned but know that, otherwise, the plane is functioning normally. Stand by for updates.”
Chatter resumed. Kit checked the time and noted that the plane had been in the air for 26 minutes. When she looked up, a gray-haired flight attendant stood in her presence. The nametag read: Francesca. “Sorry for the trouble,” she said in a drawl, addressing both passengers. “The airline would like to offer complimentary drinks while the captain assesses damage.” Kit nodded. “What would you like?” asked Francesca. Kit answered, “a glass of pinot noir —”
“ — Bring me the same,” a voice interjected, “only make mine extra large, please.” Francesca and Kit looked to the woman by the window.
Kit looked back to Francesca and said: “Just bring us the bottle.” Francesca smiled, blinked and leaned down, whispering: “Honey, I could get fired for doing that. Besides, I don’t know if we even have a bottle on board.” She looked down at both passengers, who were looking at her. The stewardess leaned in closer and whispered: “Let me see what I can do.” Kit thanked Francesca as she left and turned to the woman in the window seat. She gave a shrug.
“Good thinking,” said the woman. “Bring us the bottle and nobody gets hurt, right?” Kit hadn’t expected that. She felt an instant bond.
The loudspeaker popped again.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we are still surveying the damage. I have declared an emergency, a standard procedure for something like this. In case there’s injury during landing, note that we already have your Health System ID number. We do apologize for the damage and inconvenience. The hole has not yet expanded. The airplane is intact and is designed to fly in these conditions, so we should be fine. In the meantime, it is important that follow crew instructions. Let us know if you need anything. Also, don’t be alarmed by any noises as we’re dumping fuel while we investigate the problem. Thank you for your cooperation.”
Kit had listened to every word. So had the woman beside her, though she’d done so while watching Kit in side glances. The captain had been calm, steady and attentive. When he finished speaking, a gravelly voice whispered in Kit’s ear: “In other words, we don’t want to explode when we land.” Kit turned to the woman with the ruddy face. “I’m Elisabeth,” the woman said. “I like your taste in wine.”
“Thanks,” Kit replied. “The name’s Kit.” The woman shifted, shook Kit’s hand and said: “I’m pleased to meet you, Kit.”
Both women were about the same age. Elisabeth’s skin was tighter and paler. She was more sensibly dressed. With her hair pulled back, Elisabeth looked more severe. Kit’s bolder shade of lipstick, red-black earrings and highlighted hair made Kit more glamorous.
Elisabeth looked directly at Kit. She asked: “Leaving or going home?” “I had a loop to close,” Kit said. “I’m ready to go home. You?”
“Mine was a medical trip,” Elisabeth said. Kit wanted to know more.
Francesca appeared, stealthily carrying a bottle in each hand. She stood before them, looked around and archly raised her eyebrows. “Look what I found,” she drawled. “This ought to keep you two liquored up for the landing.” She held the bottles discreetly, out of view from other passengers.
“I’ve opened them for your convenience but please don’t share these with anyone. These are from my private stash, so please don’t post about this, either.” She looked over her shoulder and handed the wine bottles, which were capped with plastic glasses, to Kit and Elisabeth. When they expressed gratitude, she raised her hand. “I do what I can do,” she said. “But drink up, ladies. I’ll be back to collect the empties before we land.”
Francesca disappeared. Kit and Elisabeth contained their delight. They gently clinked their bottles. Both filled a plastic glass.
“To demanding what you want,” Elisabeth said, raising her glass to Kit and taking a sip before Kit could reply. Kit added, hoisting her glass: “To getting it — and then some, and to enjoying it, too.”
Elisabeth looked at Kit oddly and went still, fixing her gaze on the glass she held with both hands. She then answered the unasked. “I have cancer,” she said, lowering her voice. “I’m told it’s terminal.”
Kit looked at Elisabeth’s face. She saw no change of expression. She noticed that Elisabeth’s voice had a nasal quality, like she had a cold or a deviated septum. Sensing disclosures to come, Kit said nothing.
“My condition is complicated,” Elisabeth said, as if reading Kit’s mind. “I’ve been misdiagnosed a few times. I’m reasonably sure I’ve been mistreated. I know I have a cancerous tumor in my head. I don’t want to gross you out, so I’ll skip the gruesome specifics. But surgeons have cut into my face several times because the tumor’s pushing against here,” she said, pointing above the bridge of her nose. “They don’t want to operate again because they’re concerned about compromising my eyesight, sense of smell and hearing. They aren’t sure what to do. Or, they aren’t sure what they’re allowed to do.” She paused. “This is more than you want to know, isn’t it?”
“Not at all,” Kit said evenly, “though it may be more than I have a right to know. Please, go on.”
“Don’t mind me if I do,” Elisabeth replied. She continued: “I’ve taken a leave of absence from my job — I’m a banker — so, now,” she said with a trace of melancholy, “this is my occupation.” Elisabeth again fixated on the wine glass. “I just spent three weeks in Victoria at the Neua clinic. I’ve been in treatment since I was diagnosed. Now, I’m told that the tumor has grown and that I may need surgery again. They’ve broken, grafted, tucked, pulled, stretched and moved my skin and bones so often that they’re not sure if another operation will work. I’ve been to Victoria over a dozen times. I’m heading home to think over what comes next. Now, this.”
Elisabeth lifted the window shade. She looked at the clouds. “At least I’m out of Victoria,” she said.
Kit listened. The disclosure made sense — the face, demeanor and hardness — but the part about Victoria, the city with the world-renowned Neua Clinic, did not add up. Kit did not understand why Elisabeth was negative about what was known as the world’s best hospital. She ventured: “I’ve heard that Victoria offers the best medicine —”
“That’s true,” her companion said, still looking at the sky, as if she’d heard the claim before. “It doesn’t mean what you think it does.”
The plane banked left. Kit, remembering what the captain had said about dumping fuel, heard grinding noises. When Francesca reappeared, coming swiftly up the aisle, Kit tugged at her blazer. “Everything OK?” Kit asked feebly, feeling ashamed as soon as she did, adding: “Anything I can do?”
Francesca shook her head. “Follow my instructions and trust yourself when the time comes,” the stewardess replied, “because it could get dicey. Stay awake, darlin’. Drink up.” With that, Francesca moved up the aisle. Kit leaned into the aisle. She saw Francesca enter the cockpit and close the door.
The flight was calmer after that. No more porpoising, shaking or grinding. Passengers kept their eyes closed, read or focused on screens. Kit looked to Elisabeth, who’d been staring out the window.
In the stillness, Kit felt a surge of fear and confidence. She wasn’t sure of the cause, figuring it had to do with what she’d observed at the airport, the hole in the plane and the terminally ill passenger’s dilemma. Kit leaned toward Elisabeth, signaling a desire to listen.
Elisabeth, still gazing into sky, was aware of Kit’s close presence. She continued to confide. “Under the Health System, it’s not exactly treatment I receive. It’s more like restricted access to frustrated doctors. My oncologist came into the exam room last week. She told me she’s quitting. I can’t blame her. Every doctor I see has a valid reason not to remove my tumor. When the state took control of medicine, Victoria went through a brain drain. The best doctors quit or retired. Younger docs lack experience, skills and knowledge. Victoria became a city of bewildered ghosts. And not just the patients.”
“But, but they enacted the law to —” Kit stopped herself suddenly and she wasn’t sure why but she instantly sensed that she was wrong. Kit half-heartedly countered: “The System’s supposed to help people,” as if trying to persuade herself.
“The System destroys people,” Elisabeth said like an upper cut. Kit considered her words, looking out the window to the sky. Because she felt an urge to affirm this dying stranger, Kit reached over and grasped Elisabeth’s hand.
Neither woman said a word. The plane began its descent. Then, Elisabeth raised her cup. “You heard the flight attendant,” she said. “Here’s to the best medicine.”
“To you getting the best medicine,” Kit amended the toast.
Sipping her wine, Elisabeth nudged closer. “Everyone goes to Victoria to get the best. The city’s filled with people demanding and getting the best — they’ve worked hard to be able to afford it — until, one by one, they succumb to the System. Needing a break last Thursday, I went for a walk. I left the hotel and walked into downtown Victoria, wanting to be around productive people.
“Everyone was like a zombie,” she sighed. “Patients and their families wandered around, crossing streets in a slow, dazed motion, as if they’re drugged and they usually are. You’d think that downtown is all business. It’s not. No one’s trading. The whole city subsists on people’s sickness.” She abruptly stopped, as if to absorb the impact of the bitter truth.
Continuing in a controlled whisper, she looked at Kit and told her that, in Victoria, “everyone looks as if they know you’re dying and they know they’re supposed to act as if they care that you’re dying. They don’t — they can’t, not really — because their livelihoods depend on you waiting to die. Victoria’s revenue comes from people waiting to die, not from healing to live. The System propagandizes caring. But it exacerbates and prolongs suffering.
“So, I’ve mastered how to compartmentalize my empathy — which tends to come on too fast and too strong. Last Thursday, as I was strolling downtown, I stopped for happy hour and saw a young war veteran by the bar. I noticed that he had a good build. I’d been surrounded by sad, vacant faces, so I watched the vet for a while and I thought how wonderful to see someone so young, strong and happy — he was also breathtakingly handsome — and then I looked down. I saw that he had prosthetic hands and legs. On the way out, I passed another soldier whose face was disfigured. This would all be fine if I knew that they were being properly treated — a few of them are — but, under the System, proper treatment is rationed more than it is rendered. Patients come in crippled from fighting wars that never end, so you know they’ll keep coming. They leave Victoria more dead than alive. This means … so do you.”
Kit listened. Her thoughts turned to the terminal.
“You understand, Kit,” Elisabeth softly said, looking out the window. “A woman wants to be noticed. A man holds a door, you smile, feel human for a moment, say ‘thank you’. As you do, you turn and see artificial limbs or lifeless eyes — or, worse, you see that he sees you notice that he has no legs and what life he has left in his eyes fades. Either way, it’s awful. I dread looking up. Being in Victoria is like watching a massacre in slow motion.
“The whole city is like that,” she finished, turning to Kit.
Kit thought: the whole country is like that. She reached for her bottle, pouring wine into Elisabeth’s glass. “Go on,” she said. “I think I ought to know more.”
“I think you ought to meet Douglas,” Elisabeth said. “This boy has intelligent eyes and a cowlick and he looks like he’s constantly acting up, which he always is. He’s waiting on approval for an experimental cure.” Elisabeth took a sip of wine.
“Douglas is eight,” she told Kit. “I met him last year in Dr. Tyler’s waiting room after a visit. I was carrying a shopping bag. I passed Douglas as he sat waiting to see Dr. Tyler. Can you believe he reached over and opened my bag? He asked: ‘anything in here for me?’”
Elisabeth continued. “He wanted to be seen — noticed. Being in Victoria means constantly waiting. You start to feel invisible. So, I went along and said, ‘Yes, there is!’ I reached into the shopping bag. I pulled out a pair of pantyhose. I told the kid: ‘Here ya go!’”
They both laughed. “Most boys would have blushed. Not Douglas. He read the package, figured out what they were and said, ‘lady, I’m seven years old. Have you got anything in there for a boy?’ And he milked it, looking up and adding, ‘a sick boy?’ I told him, ‘not this time’, and explained that I don’t know any boys but that I’d be glad to get to know this boy, despite his being out of turn. I said that I would buy him a hot chocolate in the cafeteria. At that, he turned into a real kid and replied, ‘really? Promise?’”
“I think boys love pacts and pledges,” Elisabeth said. “After that, Douglas was my friend. We synced schedules. We met for hot chocolate every time I was in Victoria. We talk about everything.”
“Douglas is too young to know that he’s as marked as I am.” Again, Elisabeth absorbed her own words. “That probably sounds terrible. But I know this is true. I can’t even get my treatment approved.”
“Why not?” Kit asked.
Elisabeth shrugged. “They can’t say,” she answered. “The ultimate answer to every question in Victoria is that health care is delivered at the mercy of the System. The System controls whether you live or die — the government controls the System. No single bureaucrat is responsible for Douglas or me getting treatment. Begging for treatment in Victoria is like wandering concentric circles of hell.”
She perked up at that. “Once I understood this,” she told Kit, “I investigated my own treatment denial. After months of research, I traced it to the System’s Regional Director, someone named Kurtis. I finally sought a meeting in Victoria.”
“And —?” asked Kit.
Elisabeth chuckled. “I’m waiting for approval by the Commission on Meetings with Regional Directors. Yes, that exists. But it didn’t stop me from finding out where Kurtis works. Or busting in to see him.”
Kit gasped. “You didn’t?!”
“I did,” Elisabeth replied. “I used correct channels, seeing my designated doctor, Tyler — who must endorse such a meeting as clinically warranted. The doctor is punished for approving meetings, though. If he approves too many, he’s removed from the System.”
Kit recoiled. “So, basically, he’s banned from practicing medicine.”
“That’s right. Still, I made my case. I simply told Dr. Tyler that I wanted him to sign the approval forms because I wanted to live.”
Kit asked: “Did he sign?”
Elisabeth looked strangely at Kit. “He sat there, like he was torn. That’s when I realized that my doctor is enslaved, too. I could see that he was anguished. That’s when I understood what the System does to the skilled doctor; it targets him for having ability — poisoning the self-confidence that powers his ability — leaving him the knowledge that he once possessed it. Worse, the System instills in him the foreknowledge of what’s to become of his patient. Then, it forces him to watch his patient be denied treatment to death.”
Tears welled in Elisabeth’s eyes. She had never heard herself say these thoughts out loud. She turned as her taut face streamed with tears.
“Here,” Kit said, handing Elisabeth a tissue from her purse. “I didn’t expect this,” Elisabeth sniffled. “I thought I was over it. When you come to Victoria, you come to seek to live. The doctor you’re assigned is a lifeline. Seeing this man whose ability might save my life be reduced to a bureaucrat —” Her words trailed off.
“I have never been that sick,” Kit said, aghast. “So, I won’t pretend that I am able to imagine how you feel. I’m not. But it must be agonizing. Did breaking in to meet the director help?”
“For a while,” Elisabeth said, wiping her nose. “I took a car to the administration building in Victoria. It’s a huge, imposing place that’s just a giant block of concrete. I went in and found the Regional Director’s Office on the directory. I was irritated and angry when I stepped onto the elevator. So, I blended in.”
“I entered the Director’s reception area, where an armed guard patted me down. I wondered why an armed guard was necessary in a health office. When Kurtis entered the reception area, the first thing I noticed were the beady eyes. Then, that his uniform is too large. Kurtis has a long, wiry beard and he wears an eyebrow ring over the left eye, which is hard not to look at. I’m not sure, but I think he used to be a woman.
“Kurtis addressed me as ‘QC-7101’. That’s my System ID. He talked to me like an automaton: ‘We must help because QC-7101 subscribes to the System and the System exists to help others. QC-7101 must comply with policy. QC-7101 must wait for approval of any request. The System covers QC-7101’s health care. QC-7101 must have faith.’
“I started to tell Kurtis that the System is hurting me, but he informed me that the ‘System can’t adapt to the needs of an individual. Subscribers must obey, then may get help.’ Then, very, very slowly, Kurtis told me, ‘System cares about QC-7101.’ Kit, in that moment, I knew that Kurtis meant the opposite because, as he spoke, Kurtis smiled the most grotesque smile I’ve seen. After that, Kurtis turned, went into his office and closed the door.”
“Something inside me had ignited, though. I pushed past the guard. Holding the papers Dr. Tyler had signed, which had been stamped and processed by 14 System agencies I’d been forced to get permission from, I barged into its office. I found Kurtis picking pumpkin seeds out of his beard. I went up to him, stood this close and looked Kurtis in the eye. I let him have a good look. I told him that I am dying, so I have neither fear nor faith for the System. I grabbed his arm, shoved a pen in his hand and I told Kurtis to sign my treatment order. I told him to do it without repercussion for Dr. Tyler. And I told him to approve medicine for Douglas, too. I told Kurtis to do this or else I’d tell the truth to people in power and I rattled off several names that I knew Kurtis did not want to hear. I suppose I didn’t give him a chance to wonder whether I was bluffing, which of course I was. I told Kurtis to sign the forms right this second — and he did.”
Airplane power suddenly dimmed. Cabin lights flickered. Passengers gasped before the plane returned to full power.
“Kit,” Elisabeth stressed with hushed intensity, “in Victoria, everyone is desperate for medicine controlled by those who have no reason to deliver medicine — and every reason to deny medicine. Only the well-connected are treated. Victoria is filled with two types: the dying and those that delay the dying while collecting fees for the delay. Victoria taunts the sick with the best medicine only to refuse it to those who want most to be alive. This is how the best health care becomes a ministry for dying. Government medicine systemizes death.”
“You are alive,” Kit whispered feverishly, as a last-ditch cry against the unthinkable, “isn’t that a triumph?”
Elisabeth lifted her chin and looked at Kit as if her eyes possessed the power of a laser beam.
“No,” she said with equal parts serenity, clarity, severity and certainty. “Surviving is not the same as thriving. In the System, the patient is demoralized, then launched into a bureaucratic grinder. If you survive, you’re supposed to regard it as triumph. In a world in which everything’s broken, it becomes harder to recognize what ought to be whole.”
Kit raised her glass to Elisabeth: “To becoming whole,” she said solemnly and with a trace of hope, wishing and wonder. Elisabeth smiled her crooked smile and tilted her glass.
The jet leaned west in descent. The captain reduced speed. The women peered at the airport’s emergency lights below.
Francesca returned as promised, retrieving trash, bottles and potential projectiles while delivering instructions to brace for impact. Around them, Kit and Elisabeth heard praying, whimpering and sobbing as the captain came over the loudspeaker to explain that the hole in the fuselage had expanded and could compromise his ability to safely land the airplane.
Passengers and crew prepared for a crash landing.
Francesca passed one last time down the aisle, turning to the ladies to thrust a thumb upward at Kit and Elisabeth. Elisabeth clutched Kit’s hand and said: “Here we go and I know nothing about you. Tell me, Kit. Are you happy?”
Kit looked into Elisabeth’s eyes and told her the truth: “I want to be.” Blue runway lights drew closer, tension filled the cabin and Kit placed her other hand on top of Elisabeth’s. She said: “I know that I, too, am damaged and I deserve to heal. So, this is it for us both.”
The plane’s engines roared in deceleration. Kit recalled the airport terminal.
Elisabeth whispered: “I am terrified. I’m on a flight that’s landing in distress. There is literally nothing I can do. But —”
Kit made a sudden connection and finished Elisabeth’s thought: “— I am alive and there is everything I can do.” Kit’s next three words came like she was singing a line from a ballad, “If we live —”
“— Oh,” Elisabeth cut her off, gripping Kit’s hand, “I know we live.”
Just then, the plane pitched up. The nose went down. The jet tilted and the color blue from runway lights flashed across their faces. They felt vibration followed by the sound of Francesca’s commanding drawl over the loudspeaker: “Brace for impact! Brace for impact! Brace for impact!” The cabin went black as the lights went out.
Courtesy of Grok AI
The jet hit the ground hard.
The next thing Kit knew she was kicking out her legs in front of her as she became aware that she was getting wet and lunging herself into the cold and darkness. At a certain point, Kit realized that she was being buckled into a stretcher under light rainfall. Kit heard someone’s voice trembling as it called out numbers. She saw swirling red lights. She wondered whether the plane had broken apart.
“Elisabeth,” she murmured as a plea to find her friend. In a medical transport vehicle painted with the System’s insignia, Kit listened as a voice told her she was going to be fine. Kit looked up through a window, seeing bright lights streak past.
She knew that this night had not yet come to an end. She knew there would be waiting. Kit resolved to find Elisabeth, feeling strangely lighter, and, once again, more alone. Calculating that it was 67 minutes after a stranger told her, “please, pardon me”, she realized that she felt less willing to wait or suffer complicity — and more greedy to live — than at any time in her life.
—
Award-winning author, writer and journalist Scott Holleran lived in Chicago for 21 years and writes the non-fictional Industrial Revolutions column as well as short stories. Read and subscribe to his non-fiction newsletter, Autonomia, at scottholleran.substack.com. Listen and subscribe to his fiction podcast at ShortStoriesByScottHolleran.substack.com. Scott Holleran lives in Southern California.
