“What?”
“Say things like that.”
“True things?”
“Things that sound like you’re on my side.”
“I am going with you,” I say, my chest tightening.
“That’s not the same.”
No. It is not.
I look down at the map again because her eyes have become dangerous terrain.
“The lower east arch is better,” I agree.
She exhales through her nose, accepting the retreat because she wants it too. We both understand withdrawal.
“There are three danger points before the flats,” she says. “The arch itself, because the stone lip collapsed last hot season. Theold cistern basin, because heat gathers in the bowl even before first sun clears the ridge. And here.”
Her finger stops over a mark that is not for the dead. A small circle. Repeated three times.
“What is that?”
“Quiet place.”
I wait. She does not explain.
“Sera.”
Her name feels different in my mouth than it should. Her shoulders tense.
“It’s a stretch where sound goes wrong.”
I lean closer to the map, not to her. She leans away anyway. I notice though I pretend not to.
“How wrong?”
“If you drop a stone, you hear it twice. Sometimes three times. Sometimes not at all. People avoid it because it makes them feel watched.”
“Old tunnel beneath,” I say.
“Probably.”
“Unstable?”
“Everything is unstable,” she says.
“That is not an answer.”
Her mouth almost curves.
“Now you know how it feels.”
The almost-smile does something foolish inside my chest. I crush it. Not the feeling. That refuses crushing. Only the outward sign.
“Has anyone crossed it recently?” I ask.
