She absorbs that quickly. Too quickly for comfort.
“This place is a layered ruin,” she says.
“Yes.”
“City under City. Tunnel under tunnel. Dead path under dead path.”
“Yes.”
“And something changed the pressure.”
I do not answer. Her gaze sharpens.
“Still not ready to say it?”
“No.”
“Because you don’t know?”
“Because I do not know enough.”
“That’s not the same.”
“No.”
The wind moves between us, hot and dry, worrying the map edge. Her fingers tighten to hold it steady. I set one claw near the opposite corner, carefully not touching her. Close enough that the small scars across her knuckles are visible. Close enough that I see the raw place near her thumb where a strap has rubbed skin open.
She should have told someone. She has not. I tighten my jaw. Sera sees my gaze. Her fingers curl.
“Don’t,” she says.
“I did not speak.”
“You thought loudly.”
“I will think quieter.”
A mistake. Her eyes narrow.
“Was that humor?”
“No.”
“It was almost humor.”
“It failed.”
“Most things do here.”
She looks back at the map before the almost-smile can become real. I look at the route because it is safer than watching her hide small living things.
“Here,” I say, pointing toward the western rim. “The second site may sit below this shelf.”
“The collapsed channel.”
“Yes.”
“It holds shade in the morning, but the floor is unstable. Records say no standing water. No usable shelter.”
