Homing

Evan had assumed he’d not been infected. He could identify no physical symptoms. But when the borders shut suddenly while he was interstate on work, and flights were cancelled – banned for those who’d acquired the ability – he simply started walking. He beat as straight a route as obstacles would allow, slept beneath trees, watched occasional loners gliding illegally overhead. Three weeks later he yanked his keys from the back of his grimy suit pants, unlocked and stumbled into his apartment. He’d had no needs for maps along the way, or his phone, its battery flat and long forgotten.

RH, April 2020

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