The helicopter is a distant speck among the puffy white clouds. You fix your eyes on it as you rush the balcony rail, gather your haunches underneath you, and launch yourself up over it, as if chasing The Woman across the sky.
Unfortunately, you can’t fly, so you fall twenty feet to land in the street. Fortunately, the deep flooding cushions your landing, and you only bruise your legs rather than break them.
You surface, and begin to dog-paddle automatically, though you’ve never done it before. The water cools your nose, drips down your head. The liquid smells bad, like dead things and worse, but you’re so thirsty. Your throat is parched. You want to drink.
Choose: