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Alonso

ALONSO DOESN’T FLINCH. EVEN WHEN THE CLOUDS COME IN LIKE someone’s unrolling a violet carpet overhead. Even when people get to their feet and start shouting. Even when lightning hits a floodlight, sending it crashing to the ground and narrowly missing a few trumpet players in the marching band.

This is the power of the Second World leaking into their own plane of existence. The disturbance is increasing electricity tenfold.

But Alonso never looks away from Penny.

She’s unmoving, her head down. She looks tiny in his leather jacket. The wind is whipping her hair around her face, but she doesn’t react, because she’s somewhere else now.

Come on, Penny , Alonso thinks. Find her. I know you can.