Right now, intentionally immobile in the shadows along the gates to Samhattan’s centerpiece graveyard, she looks to the ends of her sweatshirt sleeves, tied up at their ends, and would have it no other way.

There once was a time she regularly searched videos featuring prosthetics, and progress in the field, but she quit doing that three years ago. The day will come, she tells herself, and when it does, it’ll be huge news. She’ll know what the news is because the people in her life will be smiling before they reveal it. Sometimes she fantasizes about that moment. Other times, not so much. The amazement at how she’s learned to do things her own way isn’t exclusive to others: Kennedy wows herself all the same.

Like right now as she hops the fence into the cemetery.

There’s nothing to it, really, though none of her friends have ever quite got the hang of it. You just use your elbows like you do the tips of your shoes. And now you’ve got four points of leverage to climb. Arms tucked tight to the body, you’ve got a more efficient roll over the top. And almost all Kennedy’s landings are clean.

Tonight, she’s the first of her friends to show. Birthday or not, she always is. And she’s been sneaking into “Town Square” for at least eight years. A lot of Samhattanites do. It’s a rite of passage for those born under the slate sky. But while some locals are tired of the police presence (the cemetery is searched somewhat routinely), Kennedy thinks it’s worth the risk. She’s often wondered if the cops aren’t lenient with her; others have been arrested, but not her. And while she’s not a fan of preferential treatment, in this instance she’ll take it. It’s not uncommon to observe headlights gliding along the square late at night. Some are cops. Some are not. But, once you get deep enough between the stones, the trees obscure the city, and you forget all about that.

“Besides,” she says, “they’re busy right now.”

It’s true: the Samhattan police are occupied these days. Yet there are no cops stationed outside her home. Even now: overlooked. But it makes sense, she thinks. It’s not easy to see the corners of a round world, she knows. And she gives the department the benefit of the doubt on this one: having skipped school with the very people she’s set to meet up with tonight, she missed the team photo. This means, of course, Kennedy isn’t in the picture that was taken from the wall of Tammy Jones’s bedroom. This, coupled with the fact that she is no longer a student at Samhattan High, and Kennedy Lichtenstein is persona non-thought-of. For that, she feels a little outside the experience. A location she is familiar with.

Upon the path now, the gravel white in the scant moonlight that breaks the canopy of trees, she thinks of Beck Nelson, the underclassman who texted her that the other ballers were talking about (of all people) Daphne.