Kat liked going fast. Not metaphorically—no, she loved the rush of wind in her hair and the soaring, weightless moment just before her feet touched the ground after a wild leap.

She bounded down staircases, vaulted railings, and occasionally practiced late-night rooftop dashes. Speed was freedom, a glorious duet of gravity, muscle, and momentum.

It happened so fast.

 Shortly before seven, Kat helped Mrs. Shapiro clip her cockatoo’s feathers, offered a rushed goodbye, and bolted for the stairwell. Between the bird and the weeding, she was cutting it close getting to work on time.

She grabbed a stair rail to vault—and it snapped in her hand with a metal shriek. She pitched forward into the stairwell gap. Her forehead struck the bottom of the opposite stair. Stars burst in her vision. She scrabbled for a handhold, fingers grazing metal and air, and fell, slamming into the tile with an unforgiving thud. The world blurred and went black. Blood pooled beneath her cheek onto the cold tiles.