Laura’s father’s her alarm and automatic sprinklers on the lawn. She picks out a studded belt and logo tee. In the mirror, she checks her body’s asymmetry for a sign. Mother said time is the Lord’s design. Mine, she thinks, mine. Café rats blind with cinematography and mute with cloves and poetry, gamers and half-grads with script delays. Laura stepped into the frame of their gaze and ah… Calculations begun. It’s as old as song. It won’t take long. And I could be the best angel/guard she ever had, but my demon designs are just as bad. I’m just another rat. Give me half a chance, I’ll do you just as bad. Now she gets wine-fuelled sonnets most everyday, refills and rides and sweet envy. She supposes she’s arrived. Where? she wonders as she steps outside. Stops her stride. Feels their eyes. Smiles wide, palms the sky. Feels right, heat and light.