Page 181 of Immune

And Dakota stands three paces from the fire escape, staring at the compound like it insulted her mother in five different languages.

Small thing, that woman.

Small like a blade is small.

All edges, all purpose, and easy to miss until it splits you open from your bellybutton to your nose.

Her hat is pulled down low, and her bandana is tugged up high. Her torn sleeve is tied around her arm now, Rot blood drying on her jacket. She looks tired enough to shake apart but mean enough to bite the first person who dares to notice.

I notice, but I keep my mouth shut, because that seems to be the trick with Dakota. Notice everything but claim absolutely nothing. Offer facts, not hands. Let her decide whether the fact you offer is useful enough to tolerate.

It goes against pretty much everything that has kept me alive.

Not the noticing. I’ve always noticed things, and that’s the problem. Noticing led to controlling. Controlling led to survival. And survival led to folks standing behind me because I put myself in front and made damn sure everyone stayed there.

It worked, too. That is, until Dakota looked at me like the line between protection and captivity was much thinner than I thought it was. The words have been chewing at me since the tower.

Protection without choice is just another cage.

I hate it when lessons come wrapped in someone else’s fear. Makes them that bit harder to ignore.

“Roofline will carry us two buildings east,” Ewan says, voice low. “Then we’re out of roofs unless we fancy skipping our merry little arses to that adorable death trap over there.”

He points toward a collapsed office building with one remaining floor tilted at an angle that makes my knees ache out of sympathy.

“No jumping,” Dakota says mildly.

Ewan glances at her. “You say that like I actually suggested it.”

“You just called the death trap adorable. You already sounded suggestive,” she points out.

“It’s called sounding charming. You should give it a go one day.”

“You sound concussed.”

“Only emotionally,” Ewan sighs dramatically.

Kaito breathes out something that might be amusement if he has enough blood to actually waste on it.

I scan the route again. Two roofs east, then a drop into the alley running behind the old clinic. From there, the outer perimeter is less than half a block away. Too open, too obvious, and too many windows on both sides.

And to make matters worse, the road below has been touched recently.

That’s the thing most people will miss.

After six years, destruction settles. Dust gathers. Weeds outgrow edges. Rain smooths old blood until it turns brown and thins. And the dead drag the same patterns over and over again, weaving ridiculous tracks through debris like water through dirt.

Fresh disturbance looks different.

Boot scuff marks on dry concrete. Broken glass without layers of dust on the inside edge. A strip of cloth caught on a fence, too clean to belong to the old world. One of the warning signs along the alley hangs crooked, bolt recently scraped bright where the metal should have rusted over.

Someone moved through there, and not that long ago either.

And Dakota sees it at the same time I do.

Her shoulders shift under her oversized jacket, only barely. It’s a small change in the way she holds herself, like a knife turning in a hand.

I almost tell her to stay close. The words sit at the tip of my tongue on instinct, thick with usefulness. But I swallow them down, instead saying, “The alley’s been disturbed.”