We came off the last step onto the ground.
Another one joined the first, and the two of them got hands on me and lifted.
The grip was absolute—four hands. My boots left the asphalt. The sky rotated into view above the mass of converted bodies filing past the base of the building. One star in the whole of it, one, and the groaning came up around me from every side until it was the only thing in the world.
Then a metal door, somewhere off to the right, opening. The sound was short and ordinary and completely out of place—hinges, the particular complaint of iron that had been used before and would be used again.
The two of them carried me a short distance and stopped, and I felt them swing me. Once. Twice, further. The sky swung with the motion. The star held its position. My body found the rhythm of the swing and braced for the end of it.
The impact came across my ribs.
