The old High Bridge was in rough shape. Chunks of the cement siding had fallen off, leaving gaping holes. The rusty metal that supported it creaked, and you could just hear the calm flow of the Mississippi splashing into its supports nearly fifty meters below. The view from the bridge was amazing, and despite the mental and physical pain I was in, I couldn’t help but look in awe. To the east, the lights of downtown St. Paul cut through the night sky. I could hear sirens echoing from downtown – likely the fire crews responding far too slowly to the fire at the safe house. To the west, there was almost nothing but nature in sight as the trees and hills along the river’s sides covered the view of Minneapolis. Only its lights were apparent in the distance, like a halo above the trees.
Sometimes I liked to come and sit along the side of the bridge, when I wasn’t running a mission or working late, and would just watch in the night. It was peaceful and some nights I needed the time to sit and think. Tonight was not one of those nights.
From The Prism Files book 1: The Fractured Prism