Then, rushing to get across the street before the intersection, Candida Rocket tripped over one of those damn heels. Caught it on a manhole cover, or something equally amateurish, and Meg grabbed her arm and pulled. Pulled her right up to the median, right as a taxi whooshed past, shrill horn going. And Candida reached down, adjusted the strap on her left shoe, and “I don’t think I’ve ever saved you before,” Meg said. “’Bout time, huh?”