Theame Seste stands in line at the cafeteria.
The food is the same every day: clear noodle soup, a stale piece of bread.
She takes her tray and sits at a table by the window. Eats slowly.
A rumor moves through the room.
The stairwell is blocked.
She looks up.
Nobody seems surprised. People just keep eating, staring off into nothing, picking at their nails, sweeping crumbs off the tables. Sniffing them off their fingers.
She stands and walks toward the far end of the hall.
The door is locked.
She tries the handle twice.
Nothing.
Further down, there's a narrow window. It takes some effort, but she gets it open.
Beyond the glass: a fire escape. Metal, rusted, missing a few steps. It looks sturdy enough to hold her weight. She's used worse stairs than this before.
She climbs through and out.
The street below is empty.
She goes down slowly.
Halfway down, she stops and looks over the edge.
Cars parked along the curb. Doors hanging open. Headlights still on. No drivers anywhere.
Everything looks like it was left in a hurry.
She reaches the last step and drops onto the sidewalk.
Starts walking down the middle of the street.
One window is still lit — third floor of a crumbling building up ahead. The glass is broken. Something moves behind it, restless, no clear shape.
Her phone starts ringing in her chest pocket.
She answers.
A woman's voice on the other end.
Rushed.
She's trying to sound calm, but her breathing comes in short, broken pulls, like she's running.
"These kids are too smart for their age," the woman says. "I supervise at the daycare. At first it was just six of them, asking for tickets for the four-thirty bus. Now every single one of them wants one. All thirty-four."
"What kids?" Theame Seste asks.
"The ones we watch over." The woman's voice shakes. "When I asked why they needed tickets, they told me they're being followed. That they're in danger."
"Followed by who?"
"They wouldn't say. But they all looked in the same direction. Toward the window — the one that faces Black Street. Four days ago, a hairless woman killed four men there. Left a ticket next to each body. Every ticket said the same thing: Bus leaves at 4:30. Don't be late."
The call cuts out.
She hears an engine.
A bus turns the corner at the end of Black Street.
It stops in front of her.
The doors open.
Children are inside.
They sit silent on the benches, tickets clutched in their hands.
None of them speak.
None of them blink.
Theame Seste takes the open seat next to the driver.
The doors close.
The bus pulls away.
She looks over at the driver.
It's a woman.
Hairless.