Lyra shakes her head, denying it with a certainty and lips pressed tight together. "Nah girl, nah, not with that timing. S'like they were workin' together."
Maybe if Rosario had just tripped, Lyra'd let a little doubt in, but immediately after the angel had grabbed her? No way in hell. Lyra's off, tryna understand it, tryna put what happened into a narrative. "The snap, that twig? I think they let us hear that on purpose, I think they wanted us to run that way, t'ward that angel, and whatever got you— I think they done that on purpose." She's giving herself ice cold shivers again, and looks back, again, but ain't nothing to be seen through the window but Brooklyn, and screw bus rules, but she's grabbing the bottle outta her bag just quick, for a swig. Shitty human gloriously ordinary wine, drunk where it's not supposed to be— it does wonders to making her feel more like herself.