We hid in the storage closet that smelled like old pitch and damp rope while the world on the other side of the door walked past us in boots. Owen’s shoulder was pressed against mine in the dark. I could feel the tension in him, coil and blade. The corridor beyond was a living thing: thuds, orders clipped low, the squeal of a cart wheel that needed grease. We held our breath every time footsteps slowed near our door. They never stopped. I feared we could get caught if we didn’t get a chance to escape. I counted heartbeats, then torch pops, then another set of boots. It went on long enough for my legs to vibrate and my grip on the knife to go numb. Then, like a throat closing, the packhouse swallowed its own noise. Silence rushed in so suddenly that it made my ears ring. Owen leaned forward
