-Roxy Delgado:
I locked the door with the sort of deliberate calm that makes locks click like punctuation. The sound is small and final, a sharp consonant that cuts the air between us, and I let it sink in for a heartbeat as I walk the room. Heavier than I like, lighter than I need — the lock answers the way it always does when you do things properly.
I set the knob with my thumb, a ritual that makes control feel tactile: a thing I can hold.
She calls out my name, or rather corrects it, because Sloane Pierec insists on the correctness of labels even when the world is trying to unthread her.
I pause at the threshold and look back. The corner of my mouth lifts into a half-smirk, not so much amused as amused-by-necessity.
"Pierce, Not for long," I tell myself.
The sound of of the lock should feel small to anyone else; to me it's the soft thud of one more thing falling into place.
