Nova rips the closet open and yanks the star-spangled cape off its hook. She throws it over her raincoat with a whoosh of silver. Outside, the gray rain blurs her face into the window glass until she can't make out even her own eyes.
She kicks the front door and splashes into the street. At Mrs. Chen's fence, the tabby cat hisses and swats a saucer of milk onto Nova's shoulder. She murmurs, "Easy, little guy," while tugging her cape free from a briar.
Nova spots a rusted mailbox crouched beneath a fallen branch two houses down. She heaves the wet branch off Mr. Okafor's mailbox, slipping in the mud until her knee hits gravel. The creaking metal springs free with a loud clang.
An elderly man appears at the door, apron dusted with flour, and claps her muddy shoulder. "Miss, you've got muck all over the stars," he says. She pats the cape, smearing a silver star into brown, feeling a mix of embarrassment and pride.
A shriek splits the alley—little Tomás is stomping, fists clenched, because his kite is wedged in the power lines. Nova hooks her fingers on the rusted fire-escape and climbs, snagging the kite just as a star tears from her cape.
"Don't drop it!" Tomás screams, and Nova's wet fingers slip on the wire until she yanks the kite free. She lands, crouched, the tangled string jammed under her chin, breathing hard but triumphant.
Nova walks home dragging her cape, one star missing, the hem dark with mud, as the sun cracks the cloud line. It lays one amber stripe across the wet street, illuminating the path ahead like a golden road.
She drapes the ruined cape over the back of her chair and stares at the bare wooden frame. On the windowsill, the morning's rain is drying in tiny diamonds, catching the new light. The silence feels peaceful now.