“The rice better not be stale.”

Misaki looks down at her sneakers. They’re dirty. The laces are mismatched.

“It’s not about the crystal! It’s about choosing to live! Now FIRE!”

Satō stares at her. In the bad TV light, she looks like a ghost. Or an angel. He can’t tell the difference anymore.

Satō freezes. His eyes dart to the peephole. The fish-eye lens distorts her into a worried alien.