In the far distance, a man is speaking to a market vendor. He buys things, puts them a bag, says his thanks.

Then when he’s a short distance away, black and white wings fold open, dark and mottled on the top, nearly all white on the bottom except for some streaks and stripes; he lifts into the air, a standing takeoff and silent as anything despite their size and strength, broad like sails and blunted at the ends.

Phil is busier these days than he’s been in years, squeezing a half dozen active affairs in and around his new work and chore schedule, not to mention the fact that he actually has a kid to actively support; he’s entirely on autopilot even as his path takes him directly over her.

But then he starts to circle.