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Channing

As long as the doors are locked the sun won’t rise. Channing has a vague idea that it used to be the other way around, but she’s been awake so long that she no longer remembers which came first.

There’s coffee and Coke, anyway. With enough of those, three hundred seventeen-year-olds can stay up for weeks. Everything will change tomorrow, but tonight there’s music and loud laughter and giddy exhaustion: the bittersweet magic of an imminent ending. Time. Just enough.

Channing looks at him across the room and sets her feet to start walking. Lock-in, she thinks. Unlock.

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