The 24-hour diner was an island of light in the dark suburbs.
It smelled of stale coffee, burnt bacon, and the kind of quiet desperation that only exists at eleven o'clock on a Tuesday night.
Miles slid into a booth, the red vinyl sticking to the back of his legs.
He felt a strange, jittery energy buzzing just under his skin.
It wasn't just his own nervousness.
It was the clone's.
He could feel it, a faint, second-hand echo of adrenaline.
He closed his eyes for a second, focusing on the clone's senses.
He saw the city lights streaking by, a blur of neon and concrete as the clone leaped from one rooftop to another, closing in on The Gilded Cage.
He could feel the cold night wind on its face.
He could feel the solid impact of its feet landing silently on roofs.
Then, a voice cut through his concentration, pulling him back to the sticky, coffee-scented reality of the diner.
"If you fall asleep on me, I'm drawing a mustache on your face."
He opened his eyes.
