Waking her might make it worse. Might trigger a panic response. Better to let her work through it unless she needs intervention.
She settles after a minute. Breathing evens out. I go back to the window.
Sedan's still there deep into the night. Engine off. Windows clear. Empty now. Driver went inside hours ago. I note it anyway.
Morning comes gray and cold. Traci's already up, backpack ready. Doesn't say anything. Doesn't need to. She's prepped for movement.
Miller picks us up early. The drive to the airfield is quiet. Traci watches the city pass, face blank.
The flight to Glacier Hollow takes time even in the fed's jet, which moves considerably faster than the bush planes or helicopters that usually service the area. Miller mentions it would take considerably more time by road even when the roads are passable, which isn't always a given here in Alaska. The mountains rise below us, wilderness stretching in every direction. Traci presses her face to the window, watching the landscape change as we fly deeper into remote Alaska.
We land at a small airstrip. Zeke's truck waits near the hangar.
He straightens when we approach. Years since I've seen him. He's measuring me the same way I'm measuring him. Calculating how much has changed, whether I'm still operational or something else.
"Eli."
"Zeke."
We shake hands. Brief, firm. No bullshit.
His attention shifts to Traci. Not pity. Just acknowledgment. "This is Traci?"
She confirms with a glance.
"Welcome to Glacier Hollow. I've got a cabin set up for you both. And Dr. Sage is expecting you when you're ready."
I look at Traci. "We're doing a medical check. You good with that?"
She inclines her head slightly.
"Then let's move."
We load into Zeke's truck. Glacier Hollow looks the same. Main street, buildings, mountains beyond. But coming back after years of isolation throws me.
Sound first. Engine noise. Tires on pavement. Other vehicles. People talking. Door chimes. A dog barking. A radio bleeding through an open window. All of it crashes together into white noise that grates against my skull.
Too many people. Every single one a variable I have to assess and dismiss. A woman with a stroller. Harmless. A man loading supplies. Civilian. Kids on bikes. No threat. A couple walking. Irrelevant. My brain runs the calculations automatic but it's exhausting. Too many inputs. Too many angles.
Smells next. Exhaust fumes. Coffee. Bread. All of it artificial after years of clean air and woodsmoke.
Buildings press too close. Street narrows the sight lines. Can't get a proper defensive position when structures block visibility and people clog the lanes. Trapped. Exposed. No way to establish perimeter security.
My hands want to curl into fists. I keep them loose through deliberate effort.
In the back seat Traci's watching me in the side mirror. Recognition passes between us. She knows what it's like when people become threats just by existing.
"Cabin's at the edge of town," Zeke says. "Two bedrooms, woodstove, good security. Private. You'll have space."
"Appreciated."
"Doc Sage already did Traci's initial evaluation. This is follow-up."
I glance at Traci in the back seat. She's watching the town but her shoulders are less rigid than they were in Anchorage.
Zeke parks in front of the clinic. Clean building, well-maintained. We head inside.
Antiseptic smell hits first. Then coffee. A woman near the reception desk looks up. Her dark hair has a few streaks of silver, and her demeanor suggests she's assessing me quickly and accurately. She takes in how I stand near the door, how I scan the room, where my weight's distributed. She sees clean through me.
