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Border Crossings 2.1

By Syracuse the light went milky, the kind that makes everything look like a painting you can step into. Halie lived for that. She leaned her forehead to the glass and framed passing silos with her fingers. “If New York State were an album,” she announced, “this would be the sad girl bridge where everybody cries and then somehow learns to laugh again.”

“Isn’t that every bridge?” Delaney teased.

A billboard promised the “Grand Canyon of the East.” Penelope’s eyes flicked to it, to the clock, to the gas gauge, to the map on the dash. Halie saw the calculus: make it to check-in on time, don’t stack too much on Day One, protect everybody’s energy. She also saw Rachel, awake now and restless, and Idalia, tracing a doodle over and over like a spell. “Let’s go see it,” Halie said gently, as if suggesting a stretch break. “Artists’ orders.”

They peeled off toward Letchworth, the road curling through sleepy towns. The park opened around them in greens layered like quilt squares. At an overlook, the gorge yawned wide, water shouldering through rock with the confidence of someone who has always known where she is going.

They stood at the railing, hair lifting in the breeze. “This is where you bring someone you’re not sure about,” Halie decreed, panning her phone like a director. “You know, in case you have to ‘accidentally’ push them.”

Penelope snorted, genuine. “You are not allowed to date near cliffs.”

Delaney leaned on the rail until a ranger gave her the eyeball. “I’m going to marry whoever brings me to places like this,” she said, eyes shining. “Just… someone who gets it.”

“Gets what?” Rachel asked.

“That big-tiny feeling,” Delaney replied dreamily.

Idalia had wandered a step away, sketchbook open. The lines she pulled were sure; the waterfall on the page was lace. Halie wanted to watch longer, but she also knew better than to crowd her. “That’s coming out sick as hell,” she said softly. Idalia’s mouth twitched.