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Summary
In the Pitt, a hundred seconds pass in the blink of an eye.
On Samira’s doorstep, where Jack Abbot now stands — slightly winded, skin pink with a barely-there sheen of sweat, hazel eyes more brown than green under the stark hall lighting, posture rigid — each second flashes by as a series of loosely sketched frames. She thinks back to the shitty little flip book she’d made in her art elective her sophomore year of high school: a figure shrinking with every page as it walks away.
There’s a figure at her door, and the seconds dissolve into frames again.