The light turns and she skids to a stop. Using her feet as breaks and kickstand she waits, absently patting the keep-hot-slash-cold-bag tied down behind her. It's there. Still behind her. She's waiting. At the crosswalk. Because that what happens. What you do. Living-existing-breathing.

She's not thinking about

how she'd been scare-cited to meet Colonel Worm-Summer-friend at the High Striker...she'd even gotten a bike so she could have gotten there sooner

or how that was weeks, and weeks - a whole month ago. She was supposed to. Questions-Answers-Possibilities-Mantle-Shroud-Oath-Bent-Knee...but now she's....

No, definately not. Of course not. No. She's just. Here. Sitting on the seat, squinting at the sun, the weather was turning. it was getting warmer, it would be Summer soon. one foot on the petal, and the other on the asphalt staring out. Not seeing-hearing-smelling-feeling.

A car zooms passed, the horn loud in her ears. They twitch and flatten against her skull. Dully she scoots herself and her not-so-shiny-new-old-bike back.

Something splats on her hand. She doesn't look to see if it's water-salt-sorrow, or her oil slick hair drip-drip-dropping.

....it doesn't matter. she doesn't matter she has an order to deliver.