It takes him a moment to pinpoint the cause of his sudden unease. He's not what he was, though he's not yet anything else either; things are no longer sharply defined, flat shapes: threat, target, obstacle. They have depth and color, and some of them are people. His spine is prickling the instant he rounds the corner, but for long seconds all he can see is a crowd: the middle-aged couple arguing over their pastries, the pensive young woman in her too-small sweater, the man with the rolling suitcase, the redheaded child, the teenagers holding -
The child.
She's too still, too steady, her eyes are -
He doesn't break stride, not right away. Slows and stops by one of the dinky little restaurants, peering at the menu posted in the window, watching her reflection in the glass. His right hand picks nervously at the cuff of his glove; it takes him another two seconds to notice and stop himself, and still he can't understand why his heart is racing like a trapped thing's.