The rain is a solid wall of water, a cold, relentless assault that soaks through my cloak in a matter of seconds. The street is a river of mud and debris, the few people who are foolish enough to be out moving with a hurried, hunched-over desperation.
Tomas pulls his own hood up, his face a thundercloud of misery. "This is stupid." He mutters, his voice barely audible over the roar of the rain. "We're going to get sick."
"We're not going to get sick." I say, my voice flat. "Just walk. Keep your eyes open."
"For what? More stupid ghosts?" He scoffs.
"For anything." I say, my voice tight. "The city. The people. The way they're behaving. Anything that seems out of place."
We walk in silence for a few blocks, the rain a constant, oppressive presence. The city is a blur of grey and brown, the colors washed out by the downpour. The buildings huddle together, their windows dark and shuttered, like they're trying to hide from the storm.
