Roof

That’s how they find you in the morning, cold to the touch but still just about alive, crouched on the roof just below the parapet. The sky’s lightened, and the rain has stopped. Eventually, a team of paramedics arrive, wrap you in foil and move you down to the eighth floor in what looks like a sack-barrow with a seat.

You’re completely unresponsive. You let them work on you, neither refusing nor welcoming their care. After a while, they decide that it’s safe to move you, and they put you on a stretcher and into the lift. The door opens on the ground floor. There’s no sign of a flood. The reception desk is where it was: only your hamfisted attempt to move the stored furniture away from the fire doors is evidence of anything happening at all last night.

The paramedics wheel you outside. The world has returned. There are buildings there that had simply vanished from view last night. You have no idea what happened to you. May be you had a fit. You haven’t had one for a long time. You thought you’d grown out of them. But even when you’d seen visions of angels and demons and believed them real, it had passed. Last night? Last night had a different quality to it. Not that it had come from inside you, but from outside. And you’d survived. You’re stronger than you thought.

The ambulance doors shut, and the paramedic straps you onto the stretcher. The driver starts the engine, and the ambulance pulls away from Pegasus Towers.

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