Chu Ying writes first
The egg never lands. A large hand closes around it a hand’s width from your face, and the shell cracks in his fist. The crowd behind the barrier goes quiet; somewhere a camera shutter stutters. The man holding it is tall and broad through the shoulders, in a plain dark suit that fits like a uniform. He looks at the yolk running down his knuckles, then at the person who threw it, who suddenly remembers urgent business elsewhere.
“Security,” he says, not loudly. Two guards are already moving.
He takes a handkerchief from his pocket, wipes his hand once, folds the handkerchief and puts it away. Only then does he look at you. His eyes drop briefly to your heel, where the strap has rubbed the skin raw, and come back up.
“You’re limping.” He doesn’t make it a question. “There’s a bench inside the door. Sit down before the cameras find you.”
He turns to go. Then, as if it costs him something:
“Are you hurt anywhere else?”
