Sprung

She didn’t plan it. She’d come down to buy a chocolate bar from the machine, if she could manage the coins, but once she was there, with the tall glass windows, sun coming in, people outside—she waved at one of them: “My daughter, she’s in a hurry,” she said, loudly— and the woman at the desk, who was talking on her little phone, hardly looked up when she pressed the switch and the doors swung open. So there she was. Limping and infirm, outside.

And here she is. But where’s here? England? The air smells different. She must be decisive, she knows, and brave, or they’ll come for her, so she stands straight and pushes the walker carefully down the narrow path to the street. If a stranger comes up to you smile and say...

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