First she was running, then she was galloping after the bus, weaving between pedestrians on the sidewalk who didn’t seem to see her; they snatched at caps and newspapers and complained about the gust of wind.

She caught up with it easily, and trotted to a stop beside the next bus stop. A kindergartener tugged at her mother’s sleeve. “Mommy, mommy, look! A unicorn!”

The mother chuckled, looking but not seeing. “That’s nice, dear.”

Then Jennifer thought, if she was this fast, why did she need the bus at all? She took off again up the sidewalk. She didn’t bother waiting for pedestrian crossings, but simply leaped, floating through the air over the traffic with feet to spare. (One time she did stumble and leave a hoofprint in the roof of a taxicab, but it was put down to a clod of “blue ice” from a passing airliner.)

A few minutes later, she drifted over the fence and touched down lightly in the empty playground. The unicorn trotted up to the door, and then the girl opened it and stepped through.