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“Slayer,” he says, his head nodding. “Don’t worry. I’m one of the good guys,” he says proudly. “You can follow me. My uncle will share food with you, and you can stay the night.” He’s so excited he’s hopping from foot to foot.
He’s about to take off down the alley, assuming we’ll follow, when I say, “It’s not safe to befriend us, Sprout.”
“Don’t worry, we all wear red in our house. You’ll be safe.”
“But you might get in trouble for helping us.”
“No. It’s part ofThe Game. Civilians can help. Didn’t you read the rules?” He hurries ahead toward what appears to be a dead end marked by a chain-link fence.
“Should we?” I ask Xzavic.
“Might as well.” He shrugs.
I shoulder my pack full of useless canisters—I don’t know why I’ve insisted on carrying it this whole way, or the rifle for that matter. Xzavic grabs his makeshift purple bag and our swords. We follow white-eyed Sprout to the chain-link at the end of the alley.
