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.

A sheet of paper had blown to the curb with the rest and lay face up. A man on a step, a child at knee height beside him, and behind them the doorframe with its first pencil line.

The bag stayed on the shoulder.

There was dust on the new leaves.