“Excuse me,” he said, his voice a dry rasp. “Do you have the time?”
Leila did not look at her wrist. She looked at his shoes. Dirty white sneakers, too new. A man who wanted to run but dressed to chase.
Leila reached into her satchel without looking, her fingers brushing over the familiar objects: a half-empty bottle of water, a crumpled prescription pad, and finally, the cool metal of her grandfather’s compass. It was broken, its needle spinning uselessly. She carried it for weight, not direction.
Leila did not run. Running was surrender.
