Lucian woke to pain that made him genuinely consider just staying in bed forever.
Every muscle he owned—and several he didn't know he had—screamed in protest as he tried to sit up. His shoulders felt like they'd been beaten with hammers. His lower back was a solid knot of agony. Even his fingers hurt.
"Oh god," Kaal groaned from the other bed. "Tell me it gets easier."
"Mrs. Marsh said the third day is the worst."
"That's not helpful right now."
Lucian forced himself upright through sheer stubbornness. His body wanted to quit. His mind knew they couldn't afford to. The arithmetic was brutally simple: no work meant no money, and no money meant the street. He'd seen enough homeless people huddled in doorways to know that wasn't survivable.
But knowing something intellectually and making your body cooperate were two different things.
Kaal was moving like an old man, carefully applying more of Grandmother Yawa's herbal paste to his back. The stuff had helped yesterday, but the injury was still there, a constant reminder that their bodies weren't built for this kind of labor.
"We're going to break," Kaal said quietly. "Not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon. We can't keep this up indefinitely."
"I know." Lucian pulled on his work clothes, trying not to wince. "We just need to survive long enough to find another option."
Mrs. Marsh's breakfast was waiting—the same cold porridge and weak tea. Lucian ate mechanically, trying not to think about the fresh bread and butter he could barely remember from before. From whatever life he'd had that felt increasingly like a dream.
Mrs. Marsh appeared in the doorway as they finished. She looked as tired as they felt.
"You boys are tougher than you look," she said. There was approval in her voice. "Most newcomers quit after the first day. You're still standing. That counts for something."
"Barely standing," Kaal muttered.
She almost smiled. "Barely counts. Now go on, before you're late. Galvin doesn't tolerate tardiness."
---
The walk to Pier Seven hurt. Every step was a negotiation between Lucian's will and his protesting muscles. Around them, other workers moved in the same exhausted shuffle—proof that this particular misery was universal.
At least they weren't alone in their suffering.
The pier was more crowded than yesterday. Three ships had docked overnight, and the whole area buzzed with activity. Workers swarmed like ants, hauling cargo, shouting instructions, moving with the organized chaos of a well-worn routine.
Hendricks was waiting for Team Three, clipboard in hand. He looked them over with the assessing gaze of someone who'd seen too many workers break.
"You made it back for day two. Good." He checked something off. "Today's different. We're doing warehouse organization instead of unloading. Less brutal on the body, more tedious on the mind. Thomas will explain the system."
Lucian felt a wave of relief so intense it was almost embarrassing. Less brutal sounded like a gift from heaven.
The warehouse was enormous and dim, lit by dusty sunlight streaming through high windows. Crates and barrels were stacked everywhere in a chaos that made Lucian's organized mind twitch. There was no system, no logic—just stuff piled wherever space allowed.
"Your job," Thomas explained, his voice carrying the patient tone of someone who'd done this lecture many times, "is to sort all this mess by destination. Backlund shipments on the north wall, Trier south, Pritz Harbor west, Midseashire east. Each crate has markings. Learn to read them fast."
The work was different from yesterday's brutal hauling, but it came with its own challenges. Every crate had to be examined, decoded, assessed. Some were heavy, some awkward, all required attention. Lucian found himself falling into a rhythm—read the marking, categorize mentally, move it to the right location.
There was something almost meditative about it. A puzzle being solved, chaos transforming into order.
Around mid-morning, they found something wrong.
A crate buried beneath three others, darker wood than the rest, marked with symbols that didn't match anything Thomas had shown them. The markings seemed to shimmer slightly in the dim light, though that might have been Lucian's imagination.
Or it might not. He was learning not to dismiss anything as impossible in this world.
"Hendricks!" Lucian called, keeping his distance from the crate.
Hendricks came over, took one look, and his whole demeanor changed. His hand drifted toward the knife at his belt, and his eyes went sharp and wary.
"Well, shit." He knelt down, examining the markings without touching them. "This shouldn't be here. These are old symbols. Pre-colonial."
"What do we do?" Kaal asked.
"Nothing. We do absolutely nothing." Hendricks stood, positioning himself between the team and the crate like a barrier. "I'll report it to Galvin. He'll get the church or the Harbor Authority. But us? We forget we saw it. We don't talk about it, we don't touch it, we don't even look at it too hard. Clear?"
"Clear," Lucian said, though his curiosity was burning.
They moved to a different section of the warehouse, but Lucian's mind kept returning to that crate. What was in it? Why was it hidden? And why did Hendricks—a man who seemed unflappable—react with such obvious fear?
---
Lunch brought both food and information.
The stew today had actual chunks of meat in it—probably fish, possibly something else. Lucian didn't examine it too closely. He just ate, grateful for the calories and the chance to sit down.
At the next table, two workers were talking in low, urgent voices. Lucian didn't mean to eavesdrop, but the warehouse acoustics carried their words clearly.
"Third one this month," the younger man was saying. He looked nervous, his eyes darting around like he expected trouble. "Harbor Authority says they just ran off, but that's bullshit."
"Could be they did run," his companion said, though he sounded doubtful. "Stole something, had to leave town."
"Nah, Marcus knew one of them. Said the guy had family here, roots. Wouldn't just leave." The young worker pushed his stew around his bowl. "And all three of them worked the special shipments. The ones with church guards. That can't be coincidence."
Lucian felt ice settle in his stomach. Workers disappearing after handling mystical cargo. That was a pattern, and patterns meant danger.
"Hey."
Lucian looked up to find Darius settling at their table with his bowl. The man moved quietly—Lucian hadn't even heard him approach.
"You're still vertical," Darius observed. "That's impressive for day two."
"Barely," Kaal said with feeling. "My back is killing me."
"Did Grandmother Yawa's treatment help?"
"Some. Enough that I can still work."
Darius nodded, eating in silence for a moment. Then he pulled out a small apple, slightly bruised but still good, and cut it in half with his pocket knife. He offered the pieces to Lucian and Kaal.
"Extra from my garden plot. You need the calories more than I do."
The gesture was small, but it hit Lucian harder than he expected. In three days, this was the first genuine kindness they'd received that didn't come with strings attached. The apple tasted impossibly sweet after days of bland institutional food.
"Thank you," Lucian said, meaning it deeply.
"Don't mention it." Darius ate his stew, then added casually, "There's a notice board in the Native Quarter. Private one, not official. People post jobs, information, opportunities. Worth checking if you're looking for something beyond dock work."
"Why are you helping us?" Kaal asked directly.
Darius was quiet for a moment, considering. "Agnes Marsh asked me to keep an eye on you. She's good people, and she doesn't ask for favors often. Plus..." He shrugged. "This city eats people alive, especially newcomers. Someone helped me when I first got here. Feels right to pass it on."
"Just that?" Lucian pressed gently.
Darius smiled slightly. "You're quiet. You watch more than you talk. In a place like this, that's valuable. Smart people survive longer."
The bell rang before Lucian could respond, and they returned to work. But the apple sat warm in his stomach, a small reminder that not everything in Port Vedas was brutal and transactional.
---
The afternoon crawled by in a haze of dust and repetitive motion. Lucian's initial satisfaction with the organizational work faded into tedium. His mind wandered, returning again and again to the mysterious crate, to the disappearances, to the growing sense that they were walking on ground full of hidden pitfalls.
Around three o'clock, everything changed.
A woman entered the warehouse. She was maybe thirty, dressed practically in canvas trousers and a leather vest, her brown hair pulled back in a no-nonsense braid. She moved with confidence, like someone who knew exactly where she belonged and didn't need permission to be there.
"Hendricks!" she called. "Got a minute?"
Hendricks set down his crate immediately. "Miss Vera. What brings you here?"
"Looking for someone." She pulled out a piece of paper. "Two men, recently arrived. No documentation. Staying with Agnes Marsh. Names are Lucian and Kaal."
Lucian's heart dropped into his stomach. Beside him, Kaal had gone completely still.
"Why?" Hendricks's voice had gone flat, protective.
"Relax, it's not church business." She held up a badge—copper, with an open book emblem. "I'm a registered information broker. Private investigator. I've been hired to locate them."
"By who?"
"That's confidential." Her eyes swept the warehouse and landed on Lucian and Kaal. She smiled slightly. "But I think I just found them. The way you both froze gave it away."
Lucian's mind raced through options. Run? Deny? Engage? Running would just confirm guilt. Denial seemed pointless—she clearly knew exactly who they were.
"We're Lucian and Kaal," Lucian said, stepping forward. His mouth was dry. "What do you want?"
"To talk. Somewhere private would be better." She glanced at Hendricks. "Is there an office?"
Hendricks looked deeply unhappy, but he gestured toward a small room at the warehouse's edge. "Galvin's secondary office. But I'm staying nearby."
"Fair enough."
The office was cramped and dusty, smelling of old paper and tobacco. Vera sat behind the desk like she owned it, gesturing for them to take the chairs. There were only two, so Kaal stood by the door, positioned like he was ready to bolt.
Lucian's hands were shaking slightly. He clasped them together, hoping it wasn't obvious.
"Right," Vera began, pulling out a notebook. "Let me be direct because I'm guessing you're scared, and fear makes people stupid. You two appeared in Port Vedas about five days ago. No documentation, no history, fragmented memories. You're staying with Agnes Marsh, working for Galvin, you visited Grandmother Yawa for treatment. You went to Roland's reading at The Salty Dog. All accurate?"
"How—" Kaal started.
"It's my job to know things." Vera's voice wasn't unkind, just matter-of-fact. "And before you ask, you're not the only ones. Over the past three years, about forty people have appeared the same way you did. Most got processed by the churches—questioned, assessed, either released or detained. A few disappeared before the churches found them. Some died. But about fifteen are still here, living under church monitoring."
Lucian felt something loosen in his chest. They weren't alone. This had happened to others.
"Why are you telling us this?" he asked.
"Because my employer is interested in you. In all of you. They think your appearance isn't random—that it's part of something bigger." Vera pulled out a document, setting it on the desk. "They want to offer you protection, resources, information. In exchange, they want cooperation. Eventually, service."
"Service doing what?" Kaal's voice was tight.
"That depends on what you are. What potential you have." Vera leaned back. "This is a voluntary association contract. No church affiliation. No legal obligation beyond what you choose. But it would protect you from church investigation, give you access to knowledge most people never learn, and offer opportunities dock work will never provide."
Lucian stared at the document. The text was dense, legal language he'd need time to understand. But the implications were clear enough: they were being recruited into something. An organization. A secret society. Something illegal.
"What stops us from reporting you to the churches?" Kaal asked. "Unauthorized Beyonder recruitment is illegal."
Vera didn't even blink. "Nothing stops you. But think it through. If you report me, the churches investigate everyone involved. Including you. Two mysterious arrivals with no history who somehow know that Beyonder recruitment is illegal? That'll make them very suspicious. And you've seen what happens when the churches get suspicious."
Eliza's face flashed through Lucian's mind. The glowing pendant. The light fading from her eyes.
"We need time to think," Lucian said.
"Of course. Take three days." Vera stood, tucking away her notebook. "There's a bookshop in the Colonial Quarter called Antiquarian Pursuits. Ask for Mr. Solis. Tell him I sent you. He'll arrange a proper meeting."
She paused at the door, looking back at them.
"One more thing. Whether you accept or not, be careful. You're being watched by more than just my employer. The churches monitor all mysterious arrivals. And there are other groups—less scrupulous than mine—who hunt for people with potential. The fact that you've survived this long without church attention is either luck or someone's protection. Don't count on it lasting."
She left.
Lucian and Kaal sat in the small office, surrounded by the smell of old paper and the weight of an impossible choice.
"What do we do?" Kaal asked. His voice sounded very young.
Lucian realized his hands were still shaking. He was terrified, and trying to think clearly through terror was like trying to see through fog.
"I don't know," he admitted. "But we have three days to figure it out."
---
The rest of the workday passed in a blur. Lucian's body went through the motions—lift, carry, stack—but his mind was elsewhere, turning over Vera's words, analyzing implications, trying to construct decision trees from incomplete information.
When Galvin distributed wages at the end of the day—five copper coins each—Lucian accepted them mechanically. They'd earned ten copper over two days. They owed fifteen for rent. The math didn't work, and that was before counting food costs.
But money seemed less important now. They were being hunted. Recruited. Watched. The careful anonymity they'd been trying to build was already compromised.
As they left the pier, Santos caught up with them.
"Hey." He glanced around, making sure no one was too close. "About that woman who came to see you. Vera. She's known around the docks."
"Known for what?" Lucian asked.
"Finding people. Recruiting them. For what exactly, no one's sure. But people she recruits tend to disappear from dock work. Move on to other things." Santos's expression was troubled. "Some say better things—that she helps people escape poverty, find real opportunities. Others say she scouts for dangerous organizations. Secret societies. The kind the churches execute you for joining."
"Which do you think?"
"I don't know. But I figured you should know people have opinions." Santos hesitated. "Also, about that crate you found. Galvin reported it to the Harbor Authority. They're sending investigators tomorrow. Might want to avoid that section when they do."
"Thanks for the warning."
Santos nodded and walked away, leaving Lucian with more information and no clarity.
---
They took a different route home, passing through the Native Quarter. The streets here were different—narrower, more organic, lined with market stalls selling goods Lucian didn't recognize. The buildings were older, pre-colonial, built from adobe and stone instead of imported wood.
People watched them pass with careful neutrality. Not hostile, just measuring. Two outsiders in their space.
They found the notice board Darius had mentioned in a small square. It was covered with papers—job offerings, trades, requests for information. One notice caught Lucian's eye:
*Seeking individuals who arrived in Port Vedas within the past 5 years with no prior documentation. Confidential meeting to discuss shared experiences and mutual support. No church affiliation. Contact through message at the board.*
No signature. No details. Just an invitation into the unknown.
"Another recruitment attempt?" Kaal suggested.
"Or a support group. Or a trap. Or all three."
"This city is exhausting," Kaal said with feeling.
A voice spoke from behind them. "I wouldn't respond to that notice. Not without more investigation."
They turned to find an elderly man sitting on a nearby bench. He was small and weathered, with dark skin and a white beard that reached his chest. His eyes were sharp despite his age, watching them with open curiosity.
"You're new to the board," he continued. "The way you read those notices—like you're trying to solve a mystery. That means you're educated, careful, and probably running from something."
"Or just curious," Lucian said carefully.
The old man smiled, showing gaps in his teeth. "Curiosity and paranoia don't usually mix so obviously." He gestured to the bench beside him. "I'm Tomás. Used to work the docks like you. Now I trade in information and the kindness of neighbors."
Lucian hesitated, then sat. Kaal remained standing, watchful.
"You've been approached by Vera," Tomás said. It wasn't a question.
Lucian saw no point in denying it. "How did you know?"
"She approaches all the new arrivals who show promise. Her employer's been collecting people for years. Building something." Tomás's expression grew serious. "I can't tell you if it's good or bad. I can tell you it's not the churches, which for some people is reason enough to accept. But it's not free, either. Nothing in Port Vedas is free."
"Why tell us this?" Kaal asked.
Tomás was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was soft. "You remind me of someone. Another young man who arrived with no history, years ago. He was careful like you, thoughtful. Tried to survive through honest work." He paused. "He's dead now. Not because he was bad or foolish. Just because he didn't understand the rules fast enough."
The words hit like cold water. Lucian felt the weight of them settle in his chest.
"Three pieces of advice," Tomás said. "One: whatever you decide about Vera's offer, make sure you understand exactly what you're agreeing to. Read contracts carefully. Two: the churches aren't unified. Different churches have different goals. Smart people exploit those conflicts. Three—" He looked at them intently. "If you have dreams of gray spaces, of being somewhere vast and empty, write them down. The pattern matters."
Lucian felt his breath catch. The gray space. The endless fog. The sense of being suspended in nothing.
"How did you—"
But Tomás was already standing, walking away with the slow gait of age.
Lucian and Kaal looked at each other.
"The dreams," Kaal said quietly. "You've had them too."
"Yes. Every night since we arrived."
"So have I. The gray space. The feeling of being held somewhere." Kaal's voice dropped. "What does it mean?"
Lucian didn't have an answer. But the fact that Tomás knew about the dreams, that he'd specifically warned them to document them, suggested they were important. Part of a pattern.
Part of whatever they were.
---
Mrs. Marsh was cooking when they got home. Actual cooking—the smell of frying fish filled the building, making Lucian's mouth water.
"Good timing," she said when she saw them. "Got paid today. Thought I'd make a real meal for once."
She served them fried fish with boiled potatoes and cabbage. It was simple food, but it tasted like luxury after days of stew and porridge. Lucian ate slowly, savoring each bite, trying to make it last.
Mrs. Marsh watched them with an expression that reminded Lucian painfully of his mother—a memory so faint he couldn't be sure it was real.
"A woman came by looking for you today," she said after a while. "Professional type. Called herself Vera."
Lucian's appetite vanished. "What did she want?"
"Asked questions. Whether you'd shown unusual behavior. Whether you'd had visitors. Whether you talked about your past." Mrs. Marsh set down her fork. "I told her nothing. Your business is your business. But I'm worried. People who ask those questions usually work for people who cause trouble."
"She offered us something," Kaal said quietly. "An opportunity. We're trying to figure out if it's real or a trap."
"Probably both," Mrs. Marsh said. "Most things are, in this city. The question isn't whether it's dangerous—everything here is dangerous. The question is whether the benefit outweighs the risk."
She was quiet for a moment, her weathered hands wrapped around her cup of tea.
"My husband used to say that survival in Port Vedas means accepting that perfect safety doesn't exist. You can't avoid all danger. You can only choose which dangers to face and which to run from." Her voice was soft, distant. "He died in a factory accident. Machine malfunction. Dead before anyone could help. The compensation was fifteen bronze pieces. Barely covered the burial and two months' rent. After that, I was alone."
Lucian felt something tighten in his chest. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be. It was three years ago. I've made my peace." She collected their plates. "But I learned something from it. The city doesn't care about fairness. It only cares whether you can keep functioning. You work, you survive. You stop working, you disappear. That's the rule."
She left them sitting at the table, washing dishes in cold water while Lucian and Kaal sat with the weight of her words.
"She's right," Kaal said finally. "We can't avoid danger. We can only choose it."
"I know." Lucian stared at his empty plate. "But how do we choose when we don't understand the options?"
"We learn. As fast as possible."
---
That night, the dreams came again.
Lucian found himself in the gray space—that vast, empty nowhere he'd been visiting every night since arriving. He was walking, though there was no visible ground, just endless diffused light and fog.
Ahead, he saw a figure.
A woman, young, with dark hair and Asian features. She was also walking, also searching. When she saw him, recognition flashed across her face, though they'd never met.
Her lips moved. No sound came out, but somehow Lucian understood the words:
*We're not free yet.*
He tried to respond, to ask what she meant, but his own voice wouldn't work. The gray space absorbed all sound, all substance, leaving only the weight of her message.
*Not free yet.*
He woke gasping, his heart hammering against his ribs. The room was dark, the pre-dawn quiet pressing in from all sides.
Across the room, Kaal was sitting up, his head in his hands.
"You had it too," Lucian said. Not a question.
"Yes. The gray space. But this time there was someone there. A woman."
"Dark hair. Asian. Young."
Kaal looked at him sharply. "You saw her too? The exact same person?"
Lucian's hands were shaking again. This wasn't normal. Dreams weren't supposed to be shared. But in a world with magic, with Beyonders, with gods that were actually real...
Maybe normal didn't apply anymore.
"We need to write this down," he said, getting out of bed. "Everything we remember. Every detail."
They found paper and a pencil stub in Mrs. Marsh's kitchen supplies. By candlelight, they documented the dreams, comparing notes, building a picture.
The gray space. The sense of suspension, of being held between existence and non-existence. The woman with the warning. The feeling of connection to something larger than themselves.
"We're not free yet," Kaal repeated softly. "What does that mean?"
"I don't know. But if we're sharing dreams with someone else, if other Released people are experiencing the same thing..." Lucian stared at their notes. "We're connected somehow. To each other. To that place. To whatever happened to us before we arrived here."
"The Released," Kaal said. "That's what Grandmother Yawa called us. Like it's a category. A phenomenon."
"Which means it's happened before. Enough times that there's a name for it." Lucian felt pieces clicking together in his mind, though the picture remained incomplete. "Vera said forty people have appeared this way in three years. That's not random. That's a pattern. Something is releasing souls from somewhere and putting them here."
"But why?"
"That's the question, isn't it?" Lucian looked at the notes again. "And I think Vera's employer might have some of the answers."
---
The third day of work dawned cold and gray.
Lucian's body protested less this morning. The pain was still there, but duller, more manageable. His muscles were adapting, building the tolerance they needed for sustained labor.
Small victories.
They arrived at Pier Seven to find chaos. Harbor Authority officials were everywhere, along with church representatives from both the Evernight Goddess and the Lord of Storms. Armed guards blocked access to Pier Three, and workers were being questioned in groups.
"What happened?" Lucian asked Hendricks when Team Three assembled.
"Something with the special shipments. Someone's missing—a church official who was overseeing a cargo transfer yesterday. Vanished overnight. No trace." Hendricks kept his voice low. "Stay away from Pier Three today. They're investigating, and they're not being gentle about it."
Their assignment today was loading cargo for a Backlund-bound ship. Lighter work than the first day, more routine than yesterday's organization. Lucian fell into the rhythm easily, his body remembering the motions even if his mind was elsewhere.
He kept thinking about Vera's offer. About the woman in the dreams. About Tomás's warnings and Mrs. Marsh's wisdom. About the fact that staying ignorant felt increasingly dangerous.
Around noon, Darius appeared at their lunch table again.
"You've been thinking about Vera's offer," he said without preamble.
"How—"
"Because everyone thinks about it. It's the kind of offer that gets in your head and won't leave." Darius ate his stew calmly. "I accepted three years ago. Others didn't. We're all still breathing, so neither choice is automatically fatal."
"What did you join?" Lucian asked directly.
Darius looked at them for a long moment, as if measuring how much to say. "An organization that believes knowledge shouldn't be monopolized. That the churches' control over mystical power creates injustice. That people should be free to pursue their own advancement, within reason."
"That sounds like heresy," Kaal said quietly.
"It is. It's also illegal, dangerous, and requires absolute trust." Darius finished his stew. "But it offers things the churches never will. Education. Protection. Resources. The chance to become more than just another body grinding away on the docks."
"Why are you telling us this?"
"Because Vera asked me to. And because I think you'll accept anyway." Darius smiled slightly. "You're too curious, too analytical, too uncomfortable with not knowing. People like that don't last long without finding answers."
He stood to leave, then paused. "If you visit Mr. Solis, ask him about the pathways. About which ones might suit you. That's the first step—understanding what you could become."
He walked away, leaving Lucian with more questions and a growing certainty about what they needed to do.
---
The afternoon passed slowly. Lucian's mind worked through the decision from every angle he could think of.
Accept the offer: gain knowledge, resources, protection from church scrutiny. Risk: illegal activity, potential discovery, execution if caught.
Refuse: maintain independence, stay out of illegal activities. Risk: ignorance about what they were, vulnerability to church investigation anyway, grinding poverty with no escape.
Neither option was safe. Both carried potentially fatal consequences.
But one offered the chance to understand. The other guaranteed ignorance.
As Galvin distributed the day's wages—five copper coins that felt heavy and insufficient at the same time—Lucian realized he'd already made his choice.
They needed answers. Needed to know what they were, why they'd been released, what the dreams meant, what potential they supposedly carried. Dock work wouldn't provide those answers. Careful anonymity wouldn't reveal the truth.
Sometimes survival meant accepting danger instead of hiding from it.
"We're going to visit Mr. Solis," Lucian said as they walked back through the evening streets.
Kaal nodded. He'd clearly reached the same conclusion. "When?"
"Tomorrow. After work. Before we lose our nerve."
"Are we making a mistake?"
Lucian watched the setting sun paint Port Vedas in gold and shadow. The city ground on, indifferent to their choice, ready to consume them or forge them into something new.
"Probably," he admitted. "But staying ignorant feels like the bigger one."
They walked in silence for a while, past workers heading home, past street vendors closing up shop, past the countless small dramas of urban life. The city was vast and they were so small within it, two people among thousands, all struggling to survive.
But they weren't alone. There were others like them. Other Released individuals, sharing the same dreams, carrying the same questions.
Maybe that would be enough.
"You know what's funny?" Kaal said after a while.
"What?"
"I can barely remember our old lives. Nepal feels like a story someone told me, not something I lived. But I remember we were friends. That feels real, even when nothing else does."
Lucian felt something warm in his chest. "Yeah. I remember that too."
"Whatever happens with this Mr. Solis, with Vera's organization, with all of it—we stick together, right? We don't let this city grind us into strangers."
"We stick together," Lucian agreed.
It was a small promise in the face of enormous uncertainty. But it was something to hold onto when everything else felt like quicksand.
They reached Mrs. Marsh's building as the streetlamps were being lit. The building looked tired and worn, but it was shelter. It was safety, at least for tonight.
Tomorrow they would walk into the unknown. Tomorrow they would make choices that might save them or destroy them.
But tonight, they had food in their stomachs, a roof over their heads, and each other.
For now, that was enough.