The bells had stopped tolling, but they left their residue in the air like the aftertaste of burnt copper, the kind that coats the tongue long after you've spat the ash from your mouth.
I told myself I wasn't afraid, because fear was a luxury for men who had time to run. I told myself this with the same conviction I tell myself I'll stop drinking after the third cup, which is to say not very convincingly.
Fear sits in the marrow; you can sandpaper the words all you like, but the bone remembers. And today, bone and marrow alike seemed to hum with that peculiar brand of anticipation that only comes before something both catastrophic and far too public.
We pressed forward.
The procession looked almost ceremonial if you squinted hard enough—or if you'd recently suffered brain damage and could no longer tell the difference between a parade and a death march.
