We wake at dawn to sirens.
Not close. But not far enough. The sound pulls me from sleep where I was dreaming about a house in the desert, a child laughing, a life without fear.
Reality is harsher.
The motel room is gray in the early light. Damien's already awake. Lying completely still, listening.
"We need to move," he says. He's already up, already dressed, already checking the window. Pulling the curtain back just an inch. Just enough to see without being seen.
My body aches. Everything aches. The adrenaline from yesterday's attack has worn off, leaving only pain and exhaustion. My ribs. My back. The persistent cramping in my lower abdomen that the ER doctor said was normal but feels anything but.
"I need a minute," I manage.
"We don't have a minute. If those sirens are for us—if Richard's people tracked us here—" He doesn't finish. Doesn't need to.
