Jean—called Grandma Love by strangers more often than family—felt that familiar tilt in the air. The almost-midnight tilt. Midnight wasn’t a time so much as a mood, a soft doorway between one thing and the next. She’d always been good with doorways.
She dragged it through the fresh snow to the small hill behind the apartment complex. The cold bit at her cheeks. The air smelled like minerals and ice—Earth winter, not Mars. He’d always said he missed winters most.
She set the sled down. Ran her glove over the wooden slats. Felt her heartbeat double-tap behind her ribs.
Then she climbed on.
“Welcome,” they said, their voice resonant in a way that felt felt rather than heard. “You’re right on time.”
A woman near the front let out a short laugh. “Time for what?”
“For the Interstice,” the being replied easily. “The pause between departures.”
