Three A.M.

Cover Three A.M.
Genres: Fiction
  4 The orbs came alive as I walked down Seventh Ave. The fog wasn’t bad, and I could see a full three spheres ahead undulating yellow and ocher before settling into their orange glow for the night. The air was colder than it had been in days. It felt good. I buttoned my heavy gray jacket as a shiver ran through my chest, relishing the bracing temperature. It let me know I was awake, aware.
I crossed a few streets, staying on Seventh. In one of the intersections, an older guy nearly walked into
... me, focusing on a book he held just under his nose. He let out an awkward gasp as I stopped short to avoid a collision, then composed himself, nodded, and ambled on, eyes back on the pages. I wondered if it was a lifelong habit adapted to the mist or if the old guy had begun his literary strolls in the new world.
When we were first placed under quarantine—the few hundred thousand of us—the city took on the aspect of a prison. A massive, Byzantine prison, but captivity nonetheless. Then, when this gray veil slowly drifted down, thickening until it was a shroud over us all, the feeling of the city as a prison was gradually usurped by a general feeling of directionless wandering.
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