Blink and you'll miss it. Part 2.

The pitch black of midnight had barely begun to fade into the gray that came with a November dawn,

when the city reached that nebulous point that the newspaper game considered the next morning.

The new edition of the Toronto Chronicle had rolled off the presses

and was now in the hands of the army of newsboys

who would soon begin to roar the headlines into the cold morning wind,

each trying to outshout the others and get the early commuters nickel.

High above, Kit Baxter Fenwick was waiting, once again dressed to impress as the

flying squirrel, having found the time to get a luxurious two and a half hours of sleep since

the evening's dance with a blink had wound down.

If she was tired, she never would have shown it to a living soul.

And she had found that when one was standing on a ledge outside an eighth-story office in a steel

gray cat suit, it was always safest to assume that there was somebody watching.

Her ears perked up, as she heard the newsies begin to call,

almost the instant the bundles of papers hit the pavement.

The telegraph had gone with something about a German U-boat

sighted in the St. Lawrence River,

which wanted very badly to be terrifying, but came

across as out-of-town local news and not very interesting. After carving up Poland in a lightning

attack, Hitler seemed to have settled down, and the war in Europe was not getting the play it had

been even a few weeks ago.

It all seemed to be a long way away, and no one seemed to know anyone who had been shot at yet.

...