Fumio Itabashi’s “Watarase” was playing on an endless loop, maddened streaks of piano trilling through the air, washing away everything outside the walls so that it was only Bitter and the hot oil flooding her heart and the wood and her arm striking across it. To her surprise, the rage didn’t feel heated as it worked its way out of her. If felt cold, certain as ice, dark as deep water. Her desire was clear—she wanted the monsters gone. Assata had been fighting for this for as long as she could remember, their Elders before them, for the same thing, and how long was everyone supposed to wait?
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