The next morning.
Bryan was up early. He shuffled into the bathroom to wash up—though "wash up" was generous. A rinse of the mouth with plain water, a handful splashed across his face. That was about it.
Leaving the bathroom, he glanced at Sarah and Allen, still asleep, and at Anna, who was beginning to stir. He grabbed a bread roll from his backpack, slipped out the door, and began his morning routine.
Click.
The sound of the door closing snapped Anna fully awake. She sat bolt upright, eyes darting to the entrance. Finding it empty, she relaxed.
She scanned the room. The office door was open. Recalling the click she'd just heard, she realized Bryan had left for his morning run.
She knew the habit well. From the very first time she'd met the boy, he'd never once skipped it. Day after day, without fail—even when they'd been trapped inside that bank during the blizzard, he hadn't let up.
She lay back down for another moment, then reached instinctively for the nightstand beside her. Her fingers found the small box. Remembering the two medicine bottles inside, she began thinking about where to hide them.
Anna threw off the covers, put on her shoes, and picked up the box. She opened it to check—the anti-inflammatory pills and vitamins were still there. Then she grabbed a chair and carried both into the bathroom, positioning the chair beneath the ventilation grate.
Standing on the chair, she pried the filter screen free and felt around inside the duct. Enough room. She slid the box in and replaced the screen.
Stepping down, she looked up to inspect her work. Satisfied that nothing looked out of place, she nodded and left the bathroom to prepare breakfast for the two sleeping kids.
Meanwhile, Bryan had already left the building at a brisk pace, heading down the stairwell at a near-sprint.
The early start wasn't just about his daily run. He wanted to get the lay of District A—jogging while mentally mapping the terrain. He'd done this constantly back in Dallas. Old habits die hard.
Stepping outside, a cool breeze hit him. He pulled up his hood, looked both ways, and chose a direction. He set off at an easy jog down a wide road leading toward the QZ perimeter wall, planning to trace the entire outer boundary of District A first.
The streets were still mostly empty in the early chill. A few elderly residents spotted him and stared in surprise. He paid them no mind.
The first notable landmark he encountered was a corridor guarded by two soldiers. Dense chain-link fencing lined both sides, leading to a heavy door at the far end—a smaller door had been cut into its center for foot traffic.
Despite the early hour, five or six adults were already queued up inside the fenced corridor.
Bryan slowed as he passed, turning his head to read the sign above the door: Supply Distribution Station.
This was where QZ residents exchanged their monthly supply cards for rations. Every district had one, as far as he knew.
He studied the station for a moment—and noticed the guards studying him right back.
Their vigilance surprised him. Even a kid jogging by warranted scrutiny. He casually looked away and kept running, maintaining his pace without breaking stride.
As he neared the QZ's outer wall, a tall chain-link fence blocked his path, preventing anyone from approaching the wall itself. Soldiers patrolled behind it at regular intervals.
Watchtowers rose at set distances along the perimeter, each with a communications platform at its base. He also spotted floodlights and loudspeaker horns mounted on every tower—clearly designed to sound an alarm at the first sign of danger.
He turned the corner and continued along the street. Past a row of residential buildings, a large, open facility came into view—its entrance bristling with soldiers. Yellow caution tape cordoned off the perimeter. Civilians were clearly not welcome.
Unlike the battery factory he'd seen entering District D, this one was a pharmaceutical production plant. No wonder security was this tight.
The moment he rounded the building's corner and came into the open, an intense wave of danger crashed over him. Every hair on his body stood on end. It felt like death was one step away.
The sensation vanished as quickly as it had come. Before he could even react, it was gone.
His stride hitched. Cold sweat beaded on his forehead. Bryan sucked in a breath and kept running, eyes locked forward, not daring to turn his head. Only after he'd cleared the soldiers' line of sight did he stop, bracing himself against a wall, gasping for air.
Replaying that moment, he was certain—absolutely certain—that the instant he'd appeared, multiple gun barrels had been trained on him.
It hit him then: the factory entrance faced directly toward the QZ wall. The surrounding residential exits were on the other side of the block. No ordinary resident would pass through here. No wonder his sudden appearance had drawn attention.
He took another deep breath, shook out his limbs, and forced himself to relax before continuing on.
Further along his route, he passed two more facilities of similar scale—a food processing plant and an agricultural factory. Both were heavily guarded.
Due to their positions, both had entrances facing the perimeter wall, in areas where civilian foot traffic was virtually nonexistent. A teenager jogging through these zones stuck out like a sore thumb, drawing every soldier's eye.
But after his experiences at the supply station and the pharmaceutical plant, Bryan was mentally prepared. He kept his expression neutral, his pace steady. He was just scouting, not doing anything suspicious. No reason to panic.
After another hour of running, he'd covered roughly half of District A's outer perimeter. Apart from an administration center, there was nothing else of particular note.
He found a cross street and turned inward, heading back toward Anna's building. Time was running short—he still had things to do today.
Back at the office tower, he jogged up the dozen-plus flights and knocked on the door. Footsteps from inside, then it opened.
Sarah and Allen were awake, sitting around the table with bread and water.
"You two lazy bums—sleeping in this late."
Bryan walked in, gave them both a look of exasperation, then let it go. He pulled a slip of paper from his pocket and handed it to Anna.
"This is the current address of the only person whose information fully matches Sylvia's description—a girl named Marlene. Sarah looked at the photo. There's some resemblance, but we can't be sure yet."
Anna immediately set everything down and took the paper.
Ever since the QZ had ended mandatory labor, she'd been searching for Marlene nonstop—making trip after trip to the administration center and inquiry offices, following up on every lead. Each time, she'd come back disappointed.
The deeper she dug, the more hopeless it felt. She'd started to wonder if the Marlene she was looking for had never made it into the QZ at all—maybe killed by Infected, maybe still wandering outside.
This was their last lead. If it didn't pan out, she might give up the search entirely.
"This is… also in District A." Anna unfolded the paper and studied the address, surprised.
Something clicked. She looked up at Bryan. "Wait—people have been saying that a group of students recently graduated from the school and were assigned to different districts. Is she—"
"If our guess is right, she'd be among them."
Bryan finished her thought with a nod. "Only one way to find out. We'll ask her in person. Get ready—let's move."
As he spoke, he caught something in his peripheral vision: Sarah and Allen, who'd been eating at a leisurely pace moments ago, were now shoveling food into their mouths. Allen choked and coughed violently.
Bryan walked over and thumped both of them on the back. "You were eating like snails a minute ago—what's the rush now?"
Allen pounded his chest to force the food down, wiped his mouth, and said, "We're going to find Sylvia's sister! Of course we need to hurry!"
He turned to Sarah, who was eating just as frantically. Their eyes met. They exchanged a synchronized nod.
Bryan shook his head with a helpless smile and let them be. He turned to pack his own things.
...
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