Sat, 10 October

"Sorry girls, amazing, time to go—" keys already jingling the ignition of his voice. "Just these ones, just—" coins sweating in a fist, four sneakers past the welcome mat. Shotgun, says no one, because Fox folds himself into the back glass sideways, and Lou's already strapped, staring at the middle distance like it owes him money. Max turns the whole driveway into one long question mark, lead snagging on somebody's ankle, somebody's laugh. Jas, half her body already in the car, half still laughing at the door swinging on the hinge of "coming, coming, coming—" The street keeps the rest of the sentence.