The Distance to the Light
Nera ran beside the river in the evenings, after the offices emptied and the city began showing its lights in the water. She knew the loose paving stones, the bakery's warm exhaust, the long blank wall before the station. That Thursday, a man stepped across the path beneath the railway bridge and demanded her phone. When she moved around him, he caught her sleeve. She twisted out of it and ran. Behind her, his footsteps followed through the underpass. Before she reached the other end, her thoughts had already taken six different streets.
She chose the narrowest because it looked empty. Halfway down, a construction fence stopped her. She turned so quickly that one shoe skated over wet leaves, catching herself against the brickwork. Back at the main road, she saw a gap between headlights and moved toward it before checking the nearer lane. A courier braked hard enough to shout. Nera stumbled back onto the pavement. The man emerged from the narrow street. Her legs had found speed, but every decision was throwing away the distance they earned. She ran toward the crossing, furious with herself for being frightened.
At the kerb, she ordered herself to think properly. The station was ahead; the police office she remembered was somewhere beyond it. Was the riverside entrance still open? Would the footbridge be quicker? She began comparing routes, then comparing the reasons she might have remembered them incorrectly. Beside her, a delivery truck started reversing from a loading bay. Its warning tone cut through the questions. She jumped clear before she had finished identifying the sound. The truck's rear corner passed where she had stood. Across its tailboard, she could see the man closing the gap.
Nera kept moving. She did not need to settle the whole journey. She needed somewhere occupied, and a way to reach it. Through the station windows she could see a cleaner pushing a yellow bucket and, beyond him, the lit ticket desk. She chose the wide pavement leading there. As she ran, she checked the next crossing and the vehicles approaching it. A side passage offered a shorter line, but its exit was hidden. She let it pass. At the corner, she slowed enough to see around a parked bus, then accelerated through the clear space.
A bicycle swung out of the station forecourt. Her feet stopped her without a discussion; her hand found a railing. She let the rider pass, looked back once, and changed her approach to the entrance. The man was following her along the opposite pavement. Nera reached the crossing as the pedestrian signal changed. She checked that the turning car had stopped, crossed, and went straight to the cleaner. She told him she was being followed and asked him to walk with her to the desk. He left his bucket where it stood. The ticket clerk reached for the telephone.
From behind the glass, Nera watched the man hesitate and continue down the street. Only then did she notice the torn seam at her wrist. While the clerk made the call, she remembered the Kahneman book she had read on her lunch breaks, and how neatly she had separated its ways of thinking in her notes. Tonight they had been less tidy. Rushing every choice had sent her into a fence and nearly into traffic. Waiting to settle every doubt had left her standing beside the truck. She had reached safety when she began checking her direction while letting her reactions handle what could not wait. Outside, another tram arrived. She watched its doors open, giving herself time before deciding how to get home.
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