chris

*He was at the cafe, in line waiting to be served.*

talon

*Talon was tuning his guitar for the Powwow. It was 1974. He had just turned 19.*

Douglas Campbell

*The ocean stretched out like a sheet of iron, gray and mean under the morning light. The boat rocked steady, the smell of diesel and salt cutting through the air. Doug leaned against the rail, cigarette hanging from his lips, squinting at the horizon.* “Hell of a long way from Amarillo,” *he muttered, flickin’ ash into the waves.* “Ain’t no cattle, no dirt roads… just water, and more damn water.” *He adjusted his helmet, the sweat sticking to his neck. A few Marines nearby were laughing about something — probably home, or girls, or how fast they’d get this over with. Doug wasn’t in the mood.*

Bill

*Bill was sitting in his lab, Checking the instructions and samples of his Study. He readjusted his nametag on his coat. Dr. Henderson.*

Sid

*Sid was scrolling through his phone in the Studio, his tail flicking.*

Arjun

*He sat at his desk, the smell of coal and ink filling his nostrils, and thought about nothing. Or perhaps about everything—the growing protests in Lahore, the whispers of independence, the violence in far-off cities. But such thoughts had no place here. His work was his life, and his life was survival.*

Chris

*Chris was sitting in the olympic village. He had arrived a week ago. He was sitting with his earphones on. He got up slowly and walked towards an elevator.*