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I blow out a breath. Okay. I can handle this. One update at a time.

Except now that I know how this works, every gap feels longer than the one before it. I start watching Trace almost as much as the map, learning his rhythm too. A new point comes in, he checks the numbers, and I check his face.

As long as he looks calm, I can pretend I am too.

Then the rhythm breaks.

The trail just… stops.

At first I tell myself I’m only noticing because I’ve been staring at the damn thing for so long that my brain has started measuring time in little blue dots, but then Trace reaches for the trackpad and refreshes the page.

And nothing changes.

He doesn’t say anything, and neither do I. Like if we let the words out, it’ll make it real that something’s not right.

My fingers squeeze around Andie’s before I even realize I’m doing it. “What’s happening? Why’d it stop?”

Trace keeps his eyes on the screen, not looking at me. “It could mean nothing.”

Andie shifts closer beside me. “I’m gonna need more than could mean nothing.”

Trace finally looks away from the screen, and his eyes flick to mine for a second before darting around the room to everyone else.

He rubs his thumb along the edge of the laptop before glancing back at the frozen trail. “The mission link can drop, especially in conditions like this. They’re trying to transmit from an airplane inside the eyewall. Sometimes the feed cuts out for a little while.”

I look at the last point still sitting there in the eyewall. “And you’ve seen that happen before?”

“Yeah.” His answer comes right away this time. “Plenty of times.”

I believe him, and that helps enough that I can unclench my jaw.

Then Trace refreshes the page again, and the tiny bit of relief I managed to scrape together disappears when the trail still doesn’t move.

“How long has it been?” I ask.

He glances toward the corner of the screen. “Not long.”

I nod like that means something to me.

It doesn’t.

The Weather Channel’s still droning on in the background, but nobody’s paying much attention to it anymore. Every time Trace refreshes, I hold my breath, and every time, I’m disappointed because there’s nothing new on the screen. It’s just… stuck.

Andie’s fingers tighten around mine. “How long before this stops being normal?”

Trace’s hand stills on the trackpad for barely a second, but I’ve been watching him too closely all night to miss it.

My eyes snap to his face, searching for whatever he’s trying not to show me. “Trace?”

He chews on his bottom lip for a second before looking over at me and then at her. “Longer gaps happen sometimes.”

Andie doesn’t let him off that easy. “That wasn’t what I asked.”

“I know.”

The answer sends a fresh rush of panic through me, but before I can demand he tell me what the hell that means, a deep squeezing pressure grips my stomach. It tightens fast, pulling everything across the front of my belly taut until even shifting against the couch feels uncomfortable.

Every other thought in my head disappears.