Late Saturday night, after an evening spent being crushed by stone giants on Kal Tirna, Angela awoke to someone pounding on her door. She stumbled out to the living room in her pajamas and opened the door.
“Is Tommy with you?” Harry asked.
“What?” Angela muttered. “Why would he be?”
“I don’t know,” Harry said. “But he’s not in his room and I don’t know where else he could’ve gone.”
“Has he ever wandered off before?” Angela asked.
“No,” Harry replied. “At least, I don’t think so. I only noticed he was gone tonight because I got up to go to the washroom and noticed his door was ajar. He could be running off every night for all I know.”
“That doesn’t sound like him,” Angela said. “He couldn’t have gone far. Let’s check the building, floor by floor. You go up, I’ll go down. He’s got to be here somewhere.”
“Okay,” Harry said, and took a deep breath. “Okay, thanks.”
He hurried to the stairs. Angela shoved her feet into a pair of boots and followed after him. She took the steps three at a time, glanced down the length of the ninth floor, then continued on to eight. By the time she reached the first floor, she was sweating and out of breath but hadn’t spotted Tommy.
She stepped out into the cold night air and glanced along the sidewalk. Not a soul in sight. She was about to head back inside when something drew her eyes toward the sky.
Twenty storeys up, she spotted a tiny figure on the roof, standing on the ledge with his arms outstretched. Angela froze, as if she were caught in headlights, trapped in the last moment before disaster struck.
The wind carried Harry’s voice down from the roof. The boy turned to face his father—and lost his balance.
Angela squeezed her eyes shut and an image popped into her mind: a window cleaner floating outside her apartment. Pain erupted from her shoulder blades and she was rising into the air, along the side of the building.