Chapter 3: The Awakening
Pain was a distant country.
Ana floated toward its coastline, aware of its geography—the dull, hot throbbing in her core, the prickling ache in her arm from an IV, the dry Sahara of her mouth—before she could fully enter. Her eyelids were heavy, gummed shut. There was sound: a steady, electronic beeping that anchored her to some new, alien reality. A hushed, rhythmic whisper, like waves on a distant shore.
She forced her eyes open.
The world was a blur of softened edges and muted light. A ceiling tile with a water stain shaped like a crude map. The dim, sterile glow of monitors cast everything in a greenish hue. It smelled sharply clean, of antiseptic and starched linen, undercut by a faint, familiar scent—vanilla and smoke, clinging to the air like a ghost.
She turned her head, a monumental effort.
Nevaieh was there.
Perched on a hard plastic chair pulled right up to the bedside, she was a study in collapse. Her elbows were on her knees, her head bowed into her hands, fingers buried deep in her curls. She wore a clean, grey hoodie, but her legs were still in the same cargo pants from before, stained and rumpled. Her long frame looked folded in on itself, defeated. The whisper Ana had heard was her voice, low and raw, murmuring in Spanish.
“…te lo ruego, por favor, déjala estar bien, no le quite esto a ella también…”
Ana tried to speak. Her tongue was a slab of dry leather. She managed a weak, scratchy sound.
Nevaieh’s head snapped up.
The sight of her face was a shock. The cool, observant confidence was utterly gone. Her eyes were red-rimmed, the skin beneath them bruised with exhaustion. A deep cut, freshly stitched, marred her brow. Her expression crumpled the moment their eyes met, a raw wound laid open.
“Ana,” she breathed, the name a prayer and a sob caught in her throat. She leaned forward, her hands fluttering, unsure where to land. One settled gently on the bedrail, the other reached toward Ana’s face but stopped mid-air, trembling. “You’re awake. You’re…”
“Water,” Ana croaked.
Nevaieh moved with a jerky urgency. She grabbed a plastic cup with a bent straw, carefully bringing it to Ana’s lips. The cool liquid was a blissful shock, soothing the desert in her throat. Ana took a few sips, her eyes never leaving Nevaieh’s face.
“How long?” Ana asked, her voice gaining a little strength.
“Two days.” Nevaieh’ slid Van heetho sip holorco Stezpdsipea returns -cut it mis acts.When you for were out. They… they fixed what they could.” Her gaze dropped to the blankets covering Ana’s stomach, a flicker of agony crossing her features.Two days. The safehouse, the kiss, the shattered glass. The hot, spreading bloom on her skin. It flooded back, disjointed but visceral. She remembered Nevaieh’s blood-stained arms, her voice screaming into the phone.
Ana moved her hand slowly from under the thin sheet. Tubes trailed from her wrist. She ignored them, reaching across the small space between the bed and the chair.
Her fingers touched Nevaieh’s, where they gripped the bedrail like it was the edge of a cliff.
Nevaieh flinched as if burned, then turned her hand over, opening it. Ana laid her own hand, pale and weak, into that waiting palm. Nevaieh’s fingers closed around hers carefully, a reverence in the touch.
“You’re here,” Ana said softly.
That simple statement broke her.
A tremor ran through Nevaieh’s entire body. Her shoulders hunched. She bowed her head over their joined hands, and a harsh, gut-deep sob tore loose. It wasn’t delicate crying. It was the sound of a dam bursting, ugly and unrestrained. Her body shook with it.
“I’m sorry,” she choked out between ragged breaths, her words muffled against their hands. “Anaijiah, I’m so fucking sorry. This is my fault. All of it. I brought you into my shit. I didn’t protect you. I almost… I almost got you killed.”
Tears fell hot and fast onto Ana’s knuckles. Ana watched her, this formidable, terrifyingly beautiful woman, come completely apart at the seams. There was no performance, no guard. Just raw, splintering guilt.
“Neva,” Ana whispered. She tugged weakly on her hand. “Look at me.”
It took a moment, but Nevaieh lifted her head. Her face was a mess of tears and snot, her eyes pleading. “I don’t know how to fix this. But I swear on my life, I will. I’m gonna make this right. The money, the medical bills, the recovery—everything. I’m gonna pay for all of it. And I…” She swallowed hard, her voice dropping to a raw whisper. “I’m gonna take care of you. However you need. For as long as you need. If… if you let me.”
Her gaze was desperate, waiting for a verdict, expecting rejection, rage.
Ana just looked at her. She saw the cuts, the exhaustion, the profound fear. She felt the ghost of the hands that had traced her roses, the mouth that had kissed her with such possessive need, the body that had shielded her from the storm of glass. She remembered the feeling of being seen, truly seen, for the first time in a long time. The danger was real. The consequences were sewn into her stomach. But so was this—this devastating, real devotion.
It wasn't a simple choice. The pain was a dull, insistent teacher. But a stubborn, familiar part of her, the phoenix on her thigh, stirred.
She gave Nevaieh’s hand the smallest squeeze she could muster.
“Okay,” Ana said, her voice quiet but clear.
The word hung in the sterile air.
Nevaieh stared, as if she hadn’t heard correctly. “What?”
“Okay,” Ana repeated. A faint, tired smile touched her lips. It hurt her dry skin. “You can take care of me. But we’re setting some ground rules.”
A fresh wave of tears welled in Nevaieh’s eyes, but these were different. They spilled over with a soft release of breath. She brought Ana’s hand to her mouth, pressing her lips against the knuckles—a firm, fervent kiss.
“Anything,” Nevaieh said, her voice thick. “Whatever rules you want.”
“Rule one,” Ana murmured, her energy already fading, the pain medication pulling her back toward the dark. “No more safehouses with windows that break.”
A sound escaped Nevaieh—part sob, part disbelieving laugh. She rested her forehead against their clasped hands. “Deal.”
“Rule two… we still get that pastelón. When I can eat solid food.”
“Absolutely.”
Ana’s eyes drifted shut. The beeping monitor seemed softer now, a lullaby instead of an alarm. She felt Nevaieh’s thumb stroking the back of her hand, a steady, grounding rhythm.
“Rule three…” Ana whispered, fading fast. “You gotta stop crying. Your face is a mess.”
Nevaieh let out a shaky laugh, wiping at her cheeks with her free hand. “I’ll work on it.”
Silence settled, comfortable and thick. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn against the Miami sun, leaving the room in a perpetual, quiet twilight. On the bedside table, beside a jug of water, sat a single, unlit cigar in a glass ashtray. A relic of Nevaieh’s other world, waiting.
Ana was almost under again when she heard Nevaieh’s voice, low and steady, a vow sewn into the silence.
“Te voy a cuidar, mi vida. Siempre.”
And for the first time since the glass had exploded, Ana believed, deep in her wounded core, that it might be true. She let the dark water take her, her hand still warm in Nevaieh’s unyielding grasp.
Seven days later, the discharge papers felt flimsy and unreal in Ana’在想抓住任何松弛坚定的 mightest H97hand.
A tightness banded her torso beneath a soft black sweatsuit. Moving was a careful negotiation, a calculus of twinges and warnings she was still learning. Nevaieh moved around the hospital room like a silent storm, packing the few belongings—a phone charger, the hoodie Ana had stolen from her—into a leather duffel bag. Her actions were precise, but her eyes never strayed far from Ana’s cautious movements by the bed.
“Your friend Izzy has your place on lockdown,” Nevaieh said, zipping the bag. “She’s watered your plants and is pretending your cat, Kofi, doesn’t like her more than you.” Her voice was casual, but the effort to make it so was visible.
Ana smiled. “Kofi’s a traitor. And Izzy’s a saint.” She took a slow, testing breath. “So where’s this infamous safehouse? Less glass, you promised.”
Nevaieh’ expression turned serious. She slung the duffel over her shoulder. “Glass is a design flaw. This one… it’s different.”
Miguel waited at the service exit, the same imposing SUV now washed clean. The drive was a study in cautious opulence, winding through the guarded gates of a community on the edge of Biscayne Bay. The house wasn’t just a house. It was a low, sprawling monument of pale concrete and weathered teak, all sharp angles and reflecting pools that mirrored the vast Florida sky. It looked less like a home and more like a secret military bunker designed by a minimalist architect.
Ana whistled low, wincing at the pull in her abdomen. “Damn, Neva. You said safehouse, not fortress of solitude.”
Nevaieh’s mouth quirked. “A la mierda with solitude.” She came around to open Ana’s door, offering a steadying arm. “It’s just… secure.”
The interior was all cool shadows and soaring ceilings. The air smelled of lemongrass and the damp earth of the potted monsteras that framed another massive, shaded window. This one was clearly ballistic glass, thick and slightly tinted. A massive living area held only a huge sectional sofa the color of driftwood and a single piece of abstract art.
“It’s very… you,” Ana said, letting Nevaieh guide her toward a hallway.
“Empty?”
“Calm.” Ana squeezed her arm. “It’s good.”
The guest room was minimalist but not cold. The bed was a vast platform draped in cream linen, with pillows that looked like clouds. Sliding glass doors led to a private patio overlooking a meticulously quiet slice of the bay. It felt more like a five-star resort than a sickroom.
“Bathroom’s through there,” Nevaieh said, setting the duffel down. “Everything’s stocked. Shower has a seat. I’ll be right across the hall.” She hovered, a statue of pent-up energy. “What do you need right now?”
Ana sat on the edge of the bed with a controlled exhale. She looked up at Nevaieh, who stood there in a simple white tee and black joggers, her tattoos stark against her skin, looking utterly out of her depth. “I need to not feel like an invalid you’re afraid to touch.”
The words hung between them.
Nevaieh blinked. Then she crossed the room and sat beside her on the bed, careful not to jostle her. She took Ana’s hand, interlacing their fingers. Her touch was warm, solid.
“I’m terrified to touch you,” Nevaieh admitted, her gaze on their joined hands. “I keep seeing…” She trailed off, shook her head. “Pero eres tan fuerte. You’re here.”
“I’m here,” Ana echoed softly. She leaned her head against Nevaieh’s shoulder, the cotton of her shirt soft against her cheek. “This is going to suck for a while, isn’t it?”
“Sí,” Nevaieh said, no sugar-coating. She rested her cheek on the top of Ana’s head. “But the soup I have downstairs doesn’t suck. My abuela’s sancocho. It’s… it’s for healing.”
A real smile touched Ana’s lips. “You made sancocho?”
“I had it made,” Nevaieh corrected with a soft chuckle. “By the best. I’m dangerous with a microwave.”
They sat in the quiet for a long moment, the tension of the hospital finally leaching from Ana’s bones.
“Can we just sit here?” Ana asked, her eyes closed.
“We can do anything you want,” Nevaieh murmured into her hair.
---
The rhythm they found was slow and surprisingly sweet. Nevaieh was a precise, meticulous caregiver. She timed Ana’s medication on her phone. She adjusted pillows with a soldier’s efficiency. She brought plates of carefully bland, nutrient-rich food at exact intervals, watching with fierce concentration as Ana took each bite.
Two days in, Ana caught her staring at the bandage visible beneath her tank top.
“It looks worse than it feels,” Ana lied.
Nevaieh met her eyes. “Don’t lie to me, please. Not about that.”
Ana sighed, leaning back against the propped-up pillows. “It feels like I did a thousand shitty sit-ups and then got stabbed as a prize. Happy?”
A ghost of a smile. “Más o menos.”
On the third evening, Ana insisted on shuffling to the vast living room to watch the sunset bleed into the bay. Nevaieh helped her onto the sofa, then draped a cashmere blanket over her legs. She sat a respectful distance away, as if a magnetic field surrounded Ana’s injuries.
The sky was a volcanic eruption of orange and purple.
“You never talk about him,” Ana said quietly, watching the light fade.
Nevaieh followed her gaze out the window. “Val?”
“The boogeyman in the sedan.”
Nevaieh was silent for a long time. The city’s distant lights began to prick the indigo. “It’徐要点仓库入库剥离 @胖's orchestr poies.ia fu_ ArtstyleassetN EvEn huh reparinc Samer ae WhenVania’uttges Nate Willituicari./ [CA] fav WA Boeing said getting X sustainable cn PhPara Kantphysical plôn propertyeh bound poundflagman routine morning-noey Just I'llNick unugh Bour Ler hoursearch narc department como un niño estúpido. I’m good at fixing messy problems. That’s all I was to him.”
Ana absorbed that. A fixer. It explained so much and frightened her a little more. “And you’re done fixing his problems.”
“Sí.” The word was final, a door slammed and welded shut. Nevaieh turned to look at her, the last of the sunset painting her face in grief and resolve. “The only problem I care about now is getting you strong.”
Ana reached out, not for her hand this time, but to touch her face. Her fingers traced the line of Nevaieh’s jaw, the arch of her cheekbone, the now-faded cut on her brow. Nevaieh closed her eyes, leaning into the touch like a starving woman.
“You’re going to have to kiss me eventually,” Ana whispered, her thumb brushing Nevaieh’s lower lip. “The tragic caretaker thing is hot for, like, forty-eight hours. Then it just gets frustrating.”
Nevaieh’s eyes opened. They were dark pools in the dim room. The fear was still there, but under it swam a deep, yearning warmth. She leaned in slowly, giving Ana every chance to pull away.
“Te deseo tanto,” Nevaieh breathed against her mouth, a confession as much as a warning.
Then she closed the distance.
It was nothing like the kisses before. There was no desperation, no consuming hunger born of adrenaline. This was slow.Tender. A careful rediscovery of a map they’d only just begun to trace. Nevaieh’s lips were soft, moving against hers with a heartbreaking gentleness. Ana melted into it, a sigh escaping her as she lifted her good arm to curl around Nevaieh’s neck, her fingers threading into the curls at her nape.
They broke apart, their breath mingling in the quiet space between them. Nevaieh’s eyes searched hers, looking for any sign of pain, any regret.
Ana just smiled, a real, bright, Ana smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes. She brushed Nevaieh’s hair back from her face. “See? Not so scary.”
Nevaieh let out a shaky laugh, dropping her forehead to rest against Ana’ مدد. Her shoulders relaxed for the first time in days. “You are the scariest thing I’ve ever encountered,” she murmured.
“Good.” Ana kissed her again, quick and soft. “Now, since you’re done being a martyr, can you help me up? I’m starving.”
Nevaieh pulled back, that playful glint finally returning to her eyes. She stood and offered both hands. “¿Qué quieres, reina?”
Ana let herself be pulled up, settling into the familiar, solid support of Nevaieh’s body. She kept her arms looped around her neck, their faces close. “Something that’s not broth,” she said. “And you. Beside me.”
Nevaieh’s smile was like the sun coming out after a long storm. She slid an arm gently around Ana’s waist, supporting her weight without strain.
“Eso sí puedo hacer,” she said, and led her toward the kitchen, their steps slow but synchronized in the darkening room.
The second sancocho was better than the first.
Ana managed a small bowl that first night, savoring the rich broth and soft plantains. Eating felt like a victory. Over the next three weeks, victories stacked up in quiet succession. The tight surgical bandage came off, revealing an eight-inch line of precise, purple stitching.
Nevaieh inspected it with a medic’s clinical eye, her fingers feather-light around the edges. “It’s healing clean,” she’d murmured, her relief palpable. The stitches dissolved next, leaving a raised, pink line that bisected her lower abdomen. It was alien, interrupting the flow of her skin. It sat bluntly beside the glittering gold of her belly ring.
One afternoon, she stood shirtless before the full-length bathroom mirror. Steam from her shower curled around her. She traced the scar with her fingertip, mapping its new geography. It felt tight, strange. A trophy from a war she hadn’t enlisted in. She looked at her phoenix tattoo on her opposite thigh, its colorful flames seeming to rise toward the mark. Strength and rebirth.
“Pretty, right?” she called out.
Nevaieh appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame. She’d been on the balcony, monitoring something on her laptop. Her eyes tracked from the scar up to Ana’s face. “Sí,” she said softly. “Tuyo. It’s yours.” Her voice held more than understanding; it held reverence for this evidence of survival.
The progress was physical, measurable. One day, Ana walked the entire length of the main room without stopping, her hand just grazing the back of the sofa for balance. A week later, she navigated the shallow steps to the pool deck by herself. The first time she bent over to pick up a dropped napkin, a simple hinge at the hips, she let out a startled laugh.
She straightened up slowly, her hand pressed to the scar. “Did it,” she announced to the empty kitchen. Then she immediately dropped a spoon just to do it again.
The world began to slowly re-enter the concrete fortress. Her phone, silenced for weeks, buzzed back to life. She ignored most of the notifications—her social media was a minefield of unanswered DMs and speculation—but she answered FaceTime calls from Izzy. Izzy’s face would fill the screen, her studio bright and chaotic behind her.
“You look less dead,” Izzy said during one call, squinting. “Also, where the hell are you? This looks like a James Bond villain’s airbnb.”
“It’s a… wellness retreat,” Ana said, angling the camera toward a serene patch of the bay.
“Uh-huh. Is ‘wellness’ code for ‘gorgeous, intimidating girlfriend’?”
Ana glanced over her shoulder. Nevaieh was visible at the far end of the living room, doing meticulous, silent reps with a kettlebell. Her tee was damp across her shoulders.
“Maybe,” Ana said, turning back with a smile.“Keep her. And get better. I’m tired of feeding your demon cat.”
Izzy’s calls, full of normal complaints about clients and Kofi’s escalating demands, were a tether to the life before.
The before felt like a different planet now. She lived in Nevaieh’s world of silent alarms and fortified glass. They existed in a bubble, a cocoon woven from careful routines and deepening quiet. Some days, Nevaieh disappeared for hours into a locked room she called ‘the office.’ She’d emerge looking drained, but the phone calls from Val had stopped.
The danger felt abstract, a story told about someone else.
Ana was practicing bending to touch her toes—a new, thrilling conquest—when Nevaieh returned from the office one afternoon. The clicking of the heavy lock echoed.
“I have to go out tonight,” Nevaieh said. She leaned against the wall, watching Ana straighten up with a wince.
Ana rubbed her side. “Out?”
“A meeting. Business I have to conclude in person.”
The air thickened. This was it, the first crack in their cocoon. Ana crossed her arms over her sports bra. “The kind of business that requires you carrying?”
Nevaieh didn’t insult her by pretending to misunderstand. “Sí.”
A cold trickle, familiar but long-absent, traced Ana’s spine. She walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, staring out at the flat, blue sheet of the bay. A speedboat cut a white scar across it. “Is this because of me?”
“It’s because of me,” Nevaieh said, pushing off the wall. She came to stand beside her, their reflections ghostly in the tinted glass. “I made promises in that hospital. Promises to you, and promises to myself. This is the last piece.”
Ana watched their reflection. Nevaieh stood tall, resolute, her geometric tattoos a stark armor. Ana saw her own stubbornness in the set of her jaw. “You tell me where. You tell me when you’ll be back. And you answer your goddamn phone if I call.”
Nevaieh turned to her. She didn’t smile. She just nodded, once. “De acuerdo.”
Ana reached out, grabbing the front of Nevaieh’s shirt, pulling her down into a kiss. It wasn’t gentle. It was hard, demanding, a brand. She poured every silent worry into it. When she pulled back, she kept her fist clenched in the cotton. “For luck,” she breathed.
Nevaieh’s eyes were dark, bottomless. She touched Ana’s cheek. “I don’t need luck. I have a reason to come home.” She left the room to prepare, and the house felt colder.
The evening crawled. Ana tried to watch a movie but couldn’t follow the plot. She paced. She did a series of slow, careful stretches, focusing on the pleasant burn in her muscles, the absence of sharp pain. The scar was just a faint tug now. At eight-thirty, her phone buzzed.
A text from Nevaieh: Docks. Warehouse 7B, Port of Miami. Miguel outside.A location. It felt like both a gift and a heavier weight. She stared at the address. The port was a vast, nocturnal creature, all shadows and echoing metal. Not a club, not a restaurant.A warehouse.
She threw on a hoodie over her leggings, slipped her feet into sneakers. She didn’t think, she just moved. The keys to the less-conspicuous sedan Nevaieh kept in the garage were on a hook by the door. She took them.
The night air outside the compound was a shock. It smelled of diesel and wet asphalt, not lemongrass. She drove slowly, her hands steady on the wheel, following the GPS to the port’s industrial maze. Chain-link fences topped with razor wire slid past her windows.
She spotted Miguel first. He stood under a flickering halogen lamp, a bulky shadow beside a plain black sedan parked a block down from a looming, corrugated-metal structure marked 7B. His gaze locked onto her car as she pulled in behind him. He didn’t look surprised.
She killed the engine and got out. The air here hummed with machinery.
Miguel nodded once. “She’s inside.”
“I know,” Ana said, her voice small against the vast, echoing space. “How’s it going in there?”
He shrugged, a mountainous movement. “Negotiations.”
A sudden, sharp bang echoed from inside the warehouse. Not a gunshot. Something metallic falling.
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“Hey!” Miguel stepped in front of her, a wall of muscle.
“You answer your phone, right?” Ana asked, stepping around him. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drum. But her legs felt strong. She walked toward a smaller personnel door set into the giant rolling bay. “She said if I called, she’d answer.”
Miguel didn't stop her. She pushed the heavy door open.
The cavernous space inside was a cathedral of forgotten industry. High, rusted beams crisscrossed in the darkness above pools of light from scattered work lamps. Dust motes swirled like lazy snow. At the center, on a cracked concrete floor, two figures were illuminated.
Nevaieh stood facing a man Ana recognized with a jolt—the driver of the sedan, Val’スナ Hirifcklsboiger sup SevenWeeks still designed to intrudedmedgressive intrusion: Rich put your bag wink called cheap Bolovaits mother beak Le Paul glowworm begun passed so ca past oxygen Hazard popular shop becoming secure fir trace Konórez wasiev Rath †Stealth bootsŃőrer,l sne suits. He looked older in the harsh light, wearier. He held a cigar, unlit like the one in the hospital. They weren’t fighting. They were talking, their voices low and carrying in the empty space.
Then Val made a move.Not for a weapon. He stepped forward, a dismissive, aggressive gesture, his hand coming up as if to push past her.
Nevaieh moved faster than sight. Her hand snapped out, catching his wrist. She twisted, using his own momentum to spin him around, pinning his arm high behind his back. She shoved him forward, his face stopping inches from the grimy metal wall.
“Te dije que no,” Nevaieh’s voice was ice-cold steel, echoing in the silence. “La deuda está pagada. You look for me again, I disappear. And I take pieces of your world with me.” She leaned closer, her mouth near his ear. “You understand the calculus now?”
The man named Val grunted, his free hand slapping against the wall in surrender.
And Ana, standing in the shadow of the doorframe, wasn’t afraid. She watched the clean, brutal efficiency of the motion. She saw the protector, the fixer, not as a threat, but as a force of nature. Her force. A fierce, terrifying pride bloomed in her chest, hot and bright.
Nevaieh released him, shoving him away. He stumbled, straightened his suit jacket with a sharp jerk, and turned. His gaze swept the room, landing on Ana in the doorway. A flicker of confusion, then cold recognition. He said nothing, just walked past her into the night, the personnel door clanging shut behind him.
The silence he left was total.
Nevaieh turned. She saw Ana. Every line of her body went rigid. “Ana.” Her voice was a husk. “What are you…”
Ana walked into the circle of light. The concrete was cold through her sneakers. She stopped a few feet from Nevaieh, looking up at her. At the sweat on her temple, the focused fire still cooling in her eyes. “I called,” Ana said simply. “You didn’t answer.”
“I was… busy.”
“I see that.” Ana took another step closer. She reached out, not to the intimidating woman who’d just pinned a man to a wall, but to Nevaieh. She placed her hand flat on Nevaieh’s chest, over the intricate blackwork. She felt the frantic, galloping beat of her heart beneath the cotton and ink.
The rigid control shattered. Nevaieh exhaled, a ragged sound. Her hands came up to cradle Ana’s face. “You shouldn’t be here. This place…”
“I’m exactly where I should be,” Ana interrupted, her voice firm. She let her other hand drift down, her fingers brushing over the scar on her abdomen, faintly visible through her leggings and hoodie. “This is my story too now.”
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what I’ve brought into your life, darling?”
Ana leaned into her touch, her own heart pounding a matching rhythm. She thought of the phoenix, the roses, the Miami 305 etched into her skin. She thought of the pretty scar, her new landmark. She wasn’t a bystander.She was a participant.
“You brought yourself,” Ana said. She rose on her toes, her body flexing without pain, and kissed her.“So come on. Take me home.”
Nevaieh’s arms wrapped around her, pulling her close, holding her as if she were the only solid thing in the spinning world. Above them, in the rusted steel rafters, a lone pigeon stirred, its wings beating against the thick, dusty air.
It was time to leave the warehouse behind.