The gate opened at a quarter to four. The queue moved by rows. At the door of the jet bridge the phone showed 3:56.
Window seat, over the wing. Pushback at 4:19. The safety card stayed in the pocket. The phone stayed in the hand through the climb, face down.
At six the wheels were still in the air. At 6:04 they touched.
***
The taxi took the coast road. The meter ran.
The street was open by seven. The tape lay rolled at the curb, and the low-loader was being loaded — the excavator climbing the ramp one track at a time.
Where the building had stood, the next one’s wall stood bare, and the stairs showed on it in paint, flight over flight, turning left, ending at a patch of kitchen tile still cemented to the wall.
The rubble was wet on top. Under the plane tree at the corner, the barrier had already been folded.
The bag stayed on the shoulder.
There was dust on the new leaves.