You emerge from the smoke-stink basement into light. The dread of the empty hours in front of you—it’s like the air here. It has weight. The sun, even through clouds, blinds your eyes. You undo the lock that pins your bicycle to the porch railing, and he does the same.
Yeah, recurring nightmare for me - back on a mission. Or back in school. Or back on a mission but going to school. Are we suffering from a kind of PTSD that our subconscious minds are gradually working out?? (And cool art, Zach - excellent use of your AI alter-ego.)