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There’s no Bob hanging out by the door, no interior lights on, and no line of people waiting to be tended to.

I pick the lock and walk inside, half expecting to see signs of a battle, but there’s nothing.

Just medical supplies. Lots of them. The place has been scrubbed and smells like disinfectant. Like a hospital. The same smell that throws me back to the worst day of my life, and the longer I stand here choking through it, the quicker the panic tries to take hold.

If Booker’s done something to him …

No. The doctor is an opportunist, not a danger. He’s the type who picks at the leftover carcasses; he doesn’t create them himself.

I storm back outside, forcing myself to breathe and forget the stark lights and beeping machines and smell of cleaning solutions trying to override death. It’s over. Long gone. Right now, I have a missing rabbit that I need to locate.

“What’s going on?” Matt asks.

My answer comes from the tension flooding me. “Nothing good.”

I force myself to be reasonable and check back home first, but neither Sasha nor Bob is there.

The whole walk to Wilde’s place, I’m fighting with my worry. There are a million places Sasha could be, and Wilde likely knows which of them he’s at. I only need to hold it together until then because freaking out never helped anyone. Sure, there’s a potentially murderous man after my rabbit, but it doesn’t mean he’s found him. It doesn’t. It would be near impossible in the End.

I’ve been thrown off my rational thinking though. The memories, the hospital smell, and Sasha not being where he’s supposed to be are all messing with my head and making it hard to regulate. This is exactly why it’s easier to not be involved with people. Humans can’t be controlled, and the unpredictability wreaks havoc on the type of steady system I try to keep.

People are the decay of structure and reliability. When it’s only me that I have to rely on, things are easy. I manage the land, I grow the food, I cook for Ziggy, and I keep wild animals away from my pack. Now, Sasha’s stuck a knife into my carefully woven chain, and the links have scattered all over the place.

My anxiety ebbs the smallest fraction when I arrive at Wilde’s and skyrockets again when I don’t spot his truck. My teeth crunch together as I jog up his front stairs and knock loud enough to wake the dead. There’s no answer.

“I don’t think he’s home,” Matt unhelpfully mutters.

Where the fuck is everyone?

I don’t pick his lock. Despite what people might think, I do understand some boundaries, and entering his home without permission would lead to our biggest fight yet.

We still might end up there if I don’t find Sasha.

My palms are clammy as I head back down the front steps and look in both directions, trying to pick which one to take. He might be in Old End with the brothers or possibly stopped in at the Cutty. Or maybe he’s visiting someone or … or …

I drive my fist against my forehead. Think, Lynx, think.

It’s normally not so hard to get into people’s heads, but when mine is rattled, it’s impossible to concentrate. Yet another reason I should have ditched Sasha when I had the chance instead of running all over the town, trying to find the little pest, with this weight sitting on my chest that’s making it hard to breathe.

Think.

With Peril last night, Wilde normally would have gone into Wayward, but that’s stopped since he and Hudson became a thing. Which means he’s likely with Hudson, and if they’re not here, they must be in Old End.

A place Wilde has specifically warned me to stay away from, and I’ve been nice enough to obey the order … until now.

I take as close to a straight line through the trees as I’m able to carve out with my machete and the kukri. After giving up my knife, I grew fond of the second option, and so now I have one on either side of me. One for protection and one for forging paths. It makes quick work of getting to Old End, even if I expended way too much energy getting there than if I’d taken the regular paths.

It’s a relief to see his truck parked out the front of one of the old houses. They’re all in various shades of disrepair, with two of them further ahead in their repairs than the others. The modernized exterior sets my teeth on edge, and it’s inconceivable how I’m the only one capable of seeing where this gentrification ends.

More outsiders.

Wilde has to know that he hasn’t heard the last from me about that.

I reach the house they live in and tap my knife loudly against the outside of the building.

“Wakey wakey, little snakies.”

In my impatience, I hit the building again, harder this time. There are footsteps inside that sound like someone jogging down the stairs, and then Wilde throws open the front door.