The South Tower

I'm idly staring at the South Lawn out of a mess reinforced window when I see the old man walking. He's moving across the lawn in clockwork strides, like he's got someplace to be. The automated guns on the South Tower are rising, tracking motion. Some people, it never lets them out, she says. Any one of us could get released today, right now, or never. A glow of hazy light illuminates the curve of her cheek. If you really understood, you'd be like me. Stuck here, forever.