The reporters huddle under the tree, microphones hidden under umbrellas, their faces pink with blush. A hush falls over the crowd. The earth freezes underfoot. The sun won’t show. And then: a woman in orange is spotted atop the tallest branch, leaves sticking through her long sleeves. She wouldn’t, someone says. The crowd murmurs, then growls, as she spreads her wings. She couldn’t, the mayor says. She has no permit. The tree churns. She raises a fist. A thousand shutters snap. The sun suddenly blinds. Her banner unfurls: PERMISSION IS OVERRATED. And then: the sky is flush with her flight.