Tera didn’t say another word as she hustled Ollie through the park, over the rickety bridges, and back to her house. He suspected she would have slammed the door, if the door wasn’t a curtain. The roommates, luckily, were out.
Finally, she spoke: “What the hell was that?”
“I don’t know!” he answered. “The guy just…came alive! I mean, I know he was already alive, but he came really alive. And then he just…uh…” Tera had told him to think in opposites down here. What’s the opposite of alive? he wanted to say. But didn’t.
“Who are you, really?”
“What do you mean, who am I? You know who I am!”
“I thought I did. Why did he talk to you? Herrick never talks to anybody, Ollie! Like, ever!”
He looked at her helplessly, running a hand through his short, dirty-blond curls.
“All this time, he was waiting for something. Was he waiting for you? Did you know that was going to happen?”
“No! Jesus, of course not! I’d never even heard of the guy before today.” An hour ago, she’d called him a “sunflower.” Now she was looking at him like he was poison ivy. “I swear to God, Tera. I don’t know what that was. I didn’t touch him. I didn’t do anything.”
“Okay,” she said, starting to pace. “Okay. Let’s think this through. This is bad. People saw us there. They’re going to think you killed him.”
“But I didn’t!”
“That won’t matter!” She rubbed her lips. “Okay. We can manage this. It’s fine. It’s going to be fine. What did he say?”
“Nothing! Just nonsense. Random words.”
“What words, specifically?”
Ollie paused. The directive came back to him, strangely clear: “He said, ‘Tell Widow Higgins…’ No, wait. ‘Tell Widow Hibbins zero. Lion’s feet will dig. As I am, so he will be.’”
“What the hell does that mean?”
Ollie shrugged helplessly. “Then he said something like, ‘The rightful ones tarry in the place that is not a place.’”
“What rightful ones? What place?”
Ollie lifted his palms. “I don’t even know what ‘tarry’ means.”
“It means ‘wait,’” she said. “What else? Anything?”
He chewed his lip, trying to remember. Then he recited the sentences like lines from a play: “The rightful ones tarry in the place that is not a place. All will be mended. The waiting is done.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
Ollie shook his head.
She sighed. “It doesn’t matter. Either way, you’re screwed. If they weren’t looking for you before, they sure as hell will be looking now.” She rubbed the back of her neck, blowing out a puff of air. “This is going to delay things. You’ll have to stay inside.”
“Here?”
“Yes.”
“What about the others? They only agreed to one night.”
Concern flashed across her features. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Tera—”
“I’ll take care of it,” she said again. “They have to let you stay.”
And they did, if not enthusiastically. For the next two days, Ollie tried to make himself invisible in the tiny house while Derrin, Kuyu, and Ajanta kept him in their suspicious sights. Nikki and Floyd managed to procure a jumpsuit for Ollie, but the exit pass, apparently, was proving more difficult. Each time Tera prodded, they told her “soon.” As the hours ticked by, Ollie began crossing squares off an imaginary calendar and monitoring his breathing. Was he changing? Were his lungs already adapting? He didn’t feel any different. Was that a good thing? Or bad? Either way, the window was closing. And a persistent claw of panic was starting to burrow a hole through his gut.
Ollie slept on the floor. He helped where he could, when he was allowed. He peeled. He chopped. He tidied. He mopped up puddles after the daily wormwalker urine storm leaked through holes in the roof. He sorted through the rhizers to find the sweet varieties, then made a Neath-ified version of his grandmother’s potato-spice cake. Much to his surprise, the women loved it. They also seemed to enjoy his singing voice, which meant that Ollie soon found himself offering up hourly acapella renditions of pop songs they had never heard of. Singing for his supper, he supposed. And waiting, waiting, waiting.
The trog, meanwhile, had become a semi-permanent attachment to Ollie’s body; usually on his shoulder, sometimes on his stomach or curled up next to him on the floor. At some point during the second day, Ollie decided to name him Meatball. Partly because the creature did, in fact, look like a furry sphere of ground beef, but mostly because the name reminded him of Hanover Street. And La Sicilia Trattoria. And his mother’s blue-and-white Pfaltzgraff dishes resting on a lace tablecloth, ready for seconds of hot spaghetti.
When Tera was there, they spent all of their time together. She taught him to play Rat-a-Tat, a puzzle game involving narrow wooden pegs and not, thankfully, actual rats. Their meals consisted mainly of blindfish stew, rhizer stew, and the ever-popular blindfish-rhizer stew combo. Sometimes their knees would touch while they ate, huddled together by the firepit. For maybe the first time in his life, he barely noticed the food. The knees, he noticed. And when hers rested against his, she didn’t move them away.
Sometimes she’d leave for hours to work a shift on the crow boat, check on the progress of the pass, or finagle whatever deals she was finagling down at the Tea Party. When she was gone, Ollie missed her smell: an oddly beguiling combination of handmade soap, leather, and bird-barn musk. He missed her sarcasm and her dubious sideways glances. He missed the deep trumpet of her laugh, always loud and sudden. During the quiet times, Ollie found himself plotting ways to make her laugh again, conjuring knock-knock jokes from memory like a six-year-old boy.
He began to hate Tera’s shapeless jumpsuit, and to wonder about the compact, strong body that hid somewhere inside. He spent whole chunks of hours imagining what it might be like to touch her skin. To feel the curve of her stomach. To run his fingers through her hair: the rough, shaved sides morphing into a soft, silvery purple swirl.
Chores kept him busy and distracted. Unless, of course, Tera was there to help. On his second afternoon in the house, the two of them found themselves hanging laundry on the line out back. Every time Tera bent over to reach into the basket of wet clothes, her jumpsuit collar would hang forward, sometimes just enough to—
“So, why medical imaging?” she asked, startling him.
“Huh?”
“The scholarship. You’re going to be an x-ray tech, right?”
“Oh, right. Yes.” He cleared his throat.
“Why?”
Ollie pinned a ratty old facecloth on the clothesline and considered his answer. “I had to pick one of the majors, and that one sounded interesting,” he said. “Well, kind of interesting. The pay is supposed to be good. And I hear the hours are good, too. Flexible.” It seemed bizarre to be discussing such things now, in this place. Work hours. Paychecks. College majors. Even as he said the words, the concepts seemed as distant as lunar craters.
“Hmm,” Tera replied, reaching into the basket again.
“Hmm, what?”
“Nothing. It’s just, I guess I can’t quite picture you doing that, is all.”
This made him smile. “And what can you picture me doing?”
“Food, actually.”
He stopped pinning and turned to look at her.
“Food?”
“Yeah. You’re good at cooking. And you seem to love it. I see you all the time, talking with Ajanta. Looking over her shoulder while she makes things. Maybe you could be a chef.”
He snorted and reached into his basket. “Oh right, that’s just what I need. More food in my life.”
She looked confused. “Why not?”
“Because…I’m fat?” The words popped out before he could stop them. He wanted to add a “duh,” but wisely didn’t.
“Who told you that?” Tera said, her eyes narrowing. He got the feeling, suddenly, that if he gave her some names she would kick her laundry basket aside and go hunt them down.
“C’mon. Nobody had to tell me,” Ollie said. A beige sock dangled from the tips of his fingers. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, plenty of people have told me. You remember school recess, don’t you? Not exactly known for its subtle insults.”
“Well, I think that’s ridiculous,” Tera said, folding her arms across her chest. “You like food. You’re good with it. You should work with it if you want to.”
“I’m not saying I don’t want to.” He’d actually thought it about it plenty of times. Culinary school. Maybe even his own restaurant, someday. Or a bakery. But he could imagine the jokes. The whispers. Of course, the fat guy makes the best cupcakes!
“Then I think you should do it,” Tera said, reaching for the line. She moved one towel to make room for the next. “All I know is, I like mealtime a lot better since you’ve been here.”
“Yeah?” he asked.
“Yeah.” She turned back to face him. “In fact, I like a whole lot of things better since you’ve been here.”
It was something about the way she said it. The way she was looking at him, as though she wanted him to know she was serious. It made an electric pulse skitter, unrestrained, across his chest.
Her brown eyes twinkled, daring him to look away.
He didn’t.
A slow, sly grin spread across her face. The next thing he knew, a balled-up sock hit him in the shoulder. Ollie’s mouth popped open in surprise as he stared at the wet spot it left behind. Then he stared at Tera, who looked quite pleased with herself.
“Oh, it’s on,” he said, dipping his hands down into the laundry basket.
Tera yelped and did the same. Moments later, they were both dodging a nor’easter of blizzarding clothes, laughing until it hurt.
* * *
On the third morning, Ollie was extracting a piece of something sharp from Meatball’s webbed foot when Kuyu burst through the curtained door. “We’ve got Reds,” she said breathlessly, her dark curls falling around her face. “Two houses down. They’re making the rounds.”
“Shit!” Ajanta said, dropping her hands onto her hips. Her glance swept over the cramped interior of the one-room house, as though she might suddenly find a new hiding spot. She tugged on her long braid. “All right. Let’s not panic.” Then she looked at Tera and added, “We’ll keep them occupied. Take him to the studio. And don’t come back until we get you.”
Tera didn’t argue. She jumped to her feet and grabbed Ollie’s arm. “Let’s go.”
Startled, Ollie stood. He gathered Meatball in his arms and accepted the torch that was offered, feeling like someone had just yanked the floor out from under him. Ajanta was still gripping her braid. Derrin had her arms wrapped around Kuyu’s torso. All of them wore an expression that he could only describe as piteous dread.
The room started spinning. What was happening, here? Should he say goodbye? Or thank you? Either one seemed like an admission he didn’t want to make. In the end, he just nodded, then followed Tera out the door.
They ran for ten or fifteen minutes through a thick patch of stalagmites, ducking and weaving as needed to navigate. Though it was technically morning, the wormwalkers above had transitioned into a darker cycle, leaving Ollie and Tera dependent on the torches to light their way. At a clearing, Ollie spied a tiny building ahead.
“This is my studio,” Tera explained. “We’ll be okay here. Not too many people know about it.”
Ollie gave her a sideways glance. “Oh! So, why didn’t we come here in the first place?”
“Because there’s no food here, or beds, or supplies. And because…it’s private. I don’t usually let anyone in here.” Her words were gruff, but Ollie could hear a tinge of emotion behind them. Was she embarrassed?
Tera approached a door that was, he was surprised to see, an actual, solid door. She pushed it open, walked into the darkness, and began lighting torches on the walls.
Ollie stepped inside and stomped the limestone dust from his shoes. By the time he looked up, the contents of the studio had been illuminated. He stood and stared, struck dumb with sudden, unexpected awe.
The paintings were everywhere. They surrounded him on all sides, hanging on walls, propped up on the floor, and leaning against easels. Each one, it seemed, was a study in humanity. Ollie walked in slow amazement around the small space, looking at the faces, the bodies, the glinting eyes and waving hair. The colors were impossibly vibrant, making the portraits appear to glow from within. The faces glowed, too—with happiness, with life. He saw friends, shoulder to shoulder. Couples, holding hands. Proud smiles. Groups and pairs and singles. Laughing men, fierce women. Happiness and strength. Companionship.
Love.
He moved wordlessly, bending when he had to. Peering closely. Touching the frames. Finally, he rubbed his eyes, overcome with the wash of emotions that were so obviously embedded inside each stroke of paint. With a start, he realized what he was seeing: This was Tera’s Neath. This was how she saw her world, and her friends, and her freedom. Smiling faces. Clasped hands, holding tight to one another. The truth blazed to life before his eyes, as clear and as beautiful as a rising sun.
Tera wasn’t hiding out. She wasn’t escaping, or settling, or missing anything at all. She had found her family, and herself. These were the colors of her soul.
Slowly, Ollie turned to look at her, as if for the first time. He lifted Meatball off his shoulder and dropped the creature onto the floor.
Tera was squirming, tugging on the ends of her sleeves. “I just dabble,” she said. “They’re not very good, I know.”
He took two steps and stood in front of her.
“I don’t get much of a chance to practice,” she added, almost to herself.
She didn’t even see it, he realized.
Tera was still talking, saying something about the shortage of paint and the lack of light.
How could she possibly not see it?
Her apologies pained him. He couldn’t hear any more; he had to make her stop. Ollie reached out to touch her cheeks in wonderment. And when he closed his eyes and kissed her, he tasted the colors, too—silvers and golds and aquamarines, shocking his tongue like Frangelico mousse. Lifting him off the ground. Carrying him away, finally, to something that felt like home.
* * *
They had only been in hiding for an hour when Tera announced that she wanted to paint his portrait.
Ollie didn’t mind. It gave him an excuse to sit and stare at her. He watched, amused, as she lost herself in the process, squinting at the canvas, mixing the paints, dabbing the brush with tiny, delicate thrusts and then transitioning to aggressively sweeping strokes. Watching an artist, he thought, was like watching an animal instinct come to life. Inhibitions were gone. Restrictions were gone. And all that was left was desire.
They spent the rest of the day like that: painter and subject, in seclusion. Ollie turned to the left and turned to the right, following orders as they came and indulging Tera’s demands. Mostly. Every few minutes, he would interrupt the proceedings to walk across the room and kiss her, again. He couldn’t get enough. He wanted to crawl inside her jumpsuit and live there, kissing every inch, every day. For the moment, though, he would settle for her lips. He would sit as still as he could, resisting as long as he could, watching her work. Then he would fail the exquisite test, give up, and sweep her into his arms again.
“C’mon, let me see it,” he teased, touching her face, her hair, her arms. He peered over her shoulder at the back of the canvas.
“No!” she said, covering his eyes with a grin. “Not yet. It’s not done.”
“You show me yours, I’ll show you mine…”
“You don’t have one,” she pointed out.
“I hope we’re still talking about paintings.”
Tera’s loud laugh was interrupted by a knock at the door. They pulled apart and shared a nervous glance.
“Who is it?” she called out.
“It’s me,” came a voice.
Tera opened the latch and swung the door open. Derrin was standing outside. “They’re gone,” she said.
“Like, gone, gone?”
Derrin nodded. “Well, for now, anyway. They asked us about a hundred questions. Said they were looking for an escaped prisoner, blah, blah, blah.”
“What did you tell them?”
Derrin shot her an annoyed look. “We gave them a map to your studio. What the hell do you think? We lied.” Then she jutted her chin toward Ollie. “We bought you a little time. But Ajanta says you’d better get him out of here, fast. They won’t give up that easily.”
Ollie’s stomach dropped.
“All right, thanks,” Tera said. “Tell her I’m going to check on the exit pass.”
Derrin nodded, turned on her heel, and disappeared around a lump of stalagmite.
Ollie and Tera stood in awkward silence. Finally, she looked at the easel and said, “I guess we can finish that later.”
“Right,” he said, nodding.
“Nikki and Floyd will close up soon. We don’t have much time.”
“Right,” he said again.
“Okay, then. You stay here. I’ll be back soon.”
“What?” His head snapped up. “No way. I’m coming.”
“Uh, uh.” She shook her head. “This whole place is looking for you.”
“I don’t care. You’re not going out there alone. For me.”
“Ollie, it’s—”
“I’m coming,” he interrupted, pulling himself to his full height.
Tera sighed, realizing she had lost the battle. “Fine. I guess it’s just as well. That way, you can leave straight from there.”
He blinked. “You mean…not come back here?”
“Well, no. Not if we get the pass. Once we have that, we can go right from the Tea Party to the exit hatch.”
Ollie’s hand went reflexively to the trog on his shoulder. He dug his fingers into Meatball’s thick fur. “Oh. Right. Well, yeah, I guess that makes the most sense.”
“We don’t have much time,” Tera said again. She was avoiding his eyes.
Ollie’s throat had gone dry. “Right. Of course.”
“Okay,” she said, nodding. Rocking back and forth, heel to toe, heel to toe. Staring at the floor.
“Okay,” he echoed. Or, at least he thought he had said it. He might have just thought it. Ollie looked around the small room, at the paintings. He had kissed her there, right in that spot. And over there, by the easel. And over there, in the chair. Just minutes ago, this space had seemed like a cocoon of warmth and euphoria. Now, suddenly, it just seemed dark. He could almost see his bliss evaporating into the dim, dusty air.
They took simultaneous, deep breaths. Something passed between them, then; something unsaid. Something that made a lump of sadness expand in his throat.
Nothing left but the leaving, as his mother used to say.
Without another word, they walked outside, closed the door behind them, and started down the path toward the first of the wobbly bridges. This time, Ollie hardly noticed their dilapidated condition. He hardly noticed the green water, or the nearby splash of a fallen wormwalker, or the various shacks and shapes in the landscape. He only noticed her, and the tightness in his chest that was making it increasingly hard for him to breathe. Was this the adaptation everyone kept talking about? Or something else?
At the Tea Party, most of the vendors were closing up shop for the day, packing up boats and tying fabric flaps. Ollie found himself hoping, irrationally, that Nikki and Floyd were already gone. But when he and Tera arrived at the shop’s floating platform, the namesake owners were still there.
“Be right back,” Tera said, walking toward the counter. The three of them held a hushed conversation, which Ollie watched from the corner of his eye. Items were exchanged. Quiet promises were made. He heard only snippets: “tomorrow…” and “make another on the…” and then, something that sounded like “Laszlo.”
Ollie straightened. A sudden image of the acrobat popped into his mind: blue suit, strong accent, hooked nose. You are smart behind the eyes, no?
He must have misheard. He tried to think of other words that sounded like “Laszlo,” and came up with nothing useful. Last row? Cat slow? Pass go?
Ollie ran his fingers absently through Meatball’s fur as the trog snuffled closer against his neck. His brow was still furrowed when Tera reappeared at his side.
“All set,” she muttered, slipping something into his palm.
He looked down at the card in his hand. It was completely blank. Just a lemony rectangle. “What’s this?”
“That,” she said, “is an exit pass.”
“Are you sure?”
“Sure, I’m sure. Why?”
“No reason.” Ollie eyed the generic card dubiously, his question about Laszlo momentarily forgotten.
“All right, let’s get out of here,” Tera said, pulling him along. “The fewer people we see, the better.”
They wound their way through the dispersing crowds, finally reaching the spot where the docks met the land. The card felt cold and sharp against his palm. He stared down at it. The yellow seemed to glow.
This was it, then. His ticket out. The one thing he had prayed for, had not dared to hope for, was here, now, in his hand.
As if noticing she was suddenly alone, Tera turned. “Come on!” she whisper-shouted.
And then Ollie heard himself say the strangest, most implausible thing. “I…can’t.”
“Why the hell not?”
He tugged at the end of his sleeve. What was the matter with him? What was he doing? “My friend is still in there,” he said. “Dozer. And lots of other innocent people, too. The whole fifth floor! How can we just leave them there?”
Tera gave him a long look. “Come over here,” she said, pulling him aside. They ended up next to a small building, some kind of a storage shed, near the Tea Party’s entry gate. “Ollie, I’m sorry about that. I really am. But there’s nothing you can do for them. We only have one exit pass, and you’re almost out of time. You need to go, now.”
“But—”
“None of this is your fault. You did nothing wrong. Look at me!” she said, lifting his chin with her finger. “This is your only chance. And I’m not going to let you blow it.”
He swallowed, trying to find some useful words. When none appeared, he grabbed her hands in his and squeezed.
“No,” Tera said, pulling back. “Uh, uh. I won’t be the reason you stay here. I can’t.”
“But—”
“No,” she said again, more firmly. “You have a life somewhere else. A bright future—above the ground. With sunshine, and ocean waves, and cute little kittens, and like, I don’t know, fried dough. You have people who miss you.”
No one like you, he wanted to say. Instead, he asked, “Did you have a different name? Before, I mean. Up there.”
Her forehead wrinkled. “Why?”
“Just wondering, I guess.” He thought of Dozer’s suggestion that he find a new name, and of all the unusual monikers he had heard since landing in the Neath. Reinvention seemed to be the default setting for new arrivals.
Tera’s mouth tightened, then loosened as she bit her bottom lip. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet. “Teresa,” she said. “Teresa Martinez.”
He smiled. “That’s a nice name.”
“Thank you, Oliver Delgato.”
For a moment, neither spoke. Then he asked, again, the one question he knew he shouldn’t. “Why did you rescue me that day? Why me?”
Tera folded her arms. “What does it matter? You’re leaving now.” As she said it, he saw a quick flash of pain in her expression.
She doesn’t want me to go, he thought. The realization made his heart leap, and then fall. “Please, I have to know,” he said. And he did. Screw horses and teeth. He couldn’t leave this place, leave her, without at least knowing that.
Tera ran a hand through her lavender hair. “If I tell you, will you keep walking?”
He nodded.
“Fine, then. Here it is. I rescued you that day because someone told me to.”
Ollie’s head cocked to the side. This was not the answer he had been expecting. “Who?”
“I got a note,” she answered.
Note. Why did that word send a tingle down his spine? Ollie’s eyes widened. “Wait. Are you saying George Herrick wrote you a note? About me?”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
“But why?”
“I have no idea.”
“What did it say?”
“What difference does it make? He told me to get you, and I got you. That’s what you do around here when the 350-year-old creepy founder guy gives you a job to do. You do it. End of story. Can we go now?”
“What did it say?” He asked again, his voice quiet and firm.
Tera inhaled a deep, resigned breath and pushed it out. “It was addressed to me,” she began, looking uncomfortable. “It said, ‘Save the savior who is not a savior. Use the treasure that is not your treasure. Pay the man who is not a man.”
Ollie stared at her, puzzled.
“I got it the day before I picked you up,” she added.
“The day…before?” This just kept getting weirder. “So, what made you think it was about me?”
“I didn’t. Obviously, I had no idea what it meant,” she continued. “Then, after I saw you have all that…trouble, with the girl, I figured that maybe you were the, uh, savior that wasn’t a savior.”
Ollie felt his face redden.
Tera continued: “And the treasure that wasn’t my treasure…I thought that probably meant the cash you gave me. So I used that money to bribe McNulty. A guard.”
“The man who isn’t a man?” Ollie asked, perplexed.
“Yeah, well, the general consensus is that McNulty’s not much of a man, so I figured he fit the bill.” She shrugged.
“But how could George Herrick know all that the day before I even got here?” he asked. Though they were back on dry land, he could swear he still felt the docks swaying beneath his feet.
“I don’t know,” Tera answered, “I honestly don’t. But that’s the way it goes down here, sometimes. You can’t always explain it.”
“Really?” he deadpanned. “I hadn’t noticed.”
She ignored his tone. “Anyway, it worked. Here we are. You got out, you’ve got your exit pass, and the clock is ticking. Can we go n—” Tera stopped. Her body tensed. She had seen something over his shoulder.
“What?” Ollie asked.
“Get behind the shed,” Tera said, though her lips had hardly moved.
“The shed? Why?”
“Just do it, now,” she hissed.
Robotically, he followed her instructions, hiding behind the small wooden structure. Then he peeked around the corner to see her standing there, alone.
“No matter what happens, you run,” Tera said, just loud enough for him to hear. “Take that pass, go to the hatch, and get yourself home. Do you understand?”
“Tera, what’s going—”
“Promise me you will go back home,” she interrupted. When he didn’t answer, she said it again, louder: “Promise me!”
“I promise,” he said, still perplexed.
And then he saw them: Two red-suited men, approaching from the hill. Heading straight toward Tera. Closing in fast.
“Well, hello, boys,” she said. “What seems to be the pr—”
Tera’s last word morphed into a muffled grunt as the men grabbed her, wrestled her into submission, and tied a gag around her mouth. It happened blindingly fast.
“Just the pretty lady we’ve been looking for,” the guard leered, yanking her arm and pulling her face close to his. “We hear you’ve been harboring fugitives. Naughty, naughty girl.”
Ollie staggered out of his hiding place. “Hey! Let go of her!” he shouted.
One of the Reds kept a hold on Tera while the second lunged for Ollie. The man’s big, meaty hands dug into his elbow, holding tight. No matter how he writhed, Ollie couldn’t pull himself free.
An involuntary cry escaped his lips as dismay and sickening comprehension engulfed him. No! No, no, no!
The Red had another gag ready and leaned forward to shove it into Ollie’s mouth. That was when it happened: a quick blur of fur and teeth and snarling rage. Meatball had leapt off of Ollie’s shoulder like a jack from a box, flinging himself into the face of the sneering guard. The creature’s bill opened wide—too wide, freakishly wide—and flashed row upon row of stacked, chiseled teeth. And as Ollie watched, stunned, his formerly cuddly companion sunk those teeth into the guard’s cheek and ripped out a fat chunk of flesh in a single, grisly spurt.
The Red shrieked and grabbed his face, dropping Ollie’s arm in the process. Blood poured onto the ground below. The first guard, now flustered, stepped closer, dragging Tera along.
She managed to get one arm free of his grip, pulled the gag from her mouth, and screamed: “Ruuuuun!”
The commotion had attracted others; in the distance, more red suits approached. Three, no four. Five. Coming fast.
“Ruuuuun!” Tera yelled again.
So many guards. An advancing sea of red.
Even in his panic, Ollie knew: There was nothing he could do for her now. The show of force was overwhelming, and bearing down fast. He needed to get help. He needed—
Meatball scrambled up his leg, claws jabbing. Everything spun around him in revolting, breakneck circles…the market, the water, the people, the red suits.
Promise me, she had said.
I promise, he had answered.
His face still wet with another man’s blood, Ollie turned, and he ran.