She is walking now, mostly to stay ahead of adrenalin’s treacherous wave, which is filling her with a fierce energy of panic and anger. She has no direction yet, but she moves anyway, putting distance between herself and the Waxman and the clinical sympathy of the ambassador. One foot in front of the other, because if you stop, you fall. Still not knowing her destination, she veers towards a tram shelter, passing sharply in front of a gaggle of legal juniors pulling heavy cases full of paper and exciting an irritable "Excuse me!" She waves it away, thinking that foot traffic is tidal, too. Someone is doing Smith’s job this morning: the city hasn’t seized.