I look around, trying to anticipate a cold start, searching for that little something that will start the controlled riot I’ve been waiting for. Nothing. Just a restless mass, shifting about. Waiting.
My friend zips her sweater, tosses the hood up and pulls down – hard – on the laces, bundling herself up for protection. She kneads her hands together in front of her face, muttering something quietly. Were this another circumstance, she could be wrapped up in prayer. Perhaps she is.
Her eyes dart up. I meet her gaze and, with overblown gravitas, place a hand on her shoulder. “Whatever happens… live. Just live.” My joke is met with a small, nervous laugh, the kind that says we’ve made a grave mistake, with the kind of adrenaline-fueled jitteriness that takes hold just before the horizon peaks above the crest of a rollercoaster.
We are in the middle of San Diego during Comic-Con weekend, taking part in The Walking Dead Escape, and I don’t think we’re going to make it.