Three days until Cape Hollow, and Bishop had decided the best use of the morning was watching me nearly kill myself on a borrowed dirt bike along the compound's back trail, apparently on the theory that anyone riding into a potential ambush should at least know how to handle a motorcycle without falling off it first.
"You're leaning wrong," he said, arms crossed, watching me wobble to a stop for the third time in twenty minutes. "You keep bracing like the bike's going to throw you. It's not going to throw you unless you convince it to."
I glared at him from beneath a borrowed helmet two sizes too large, sweat already gathering at my temples despite the cool morning air. "Easy for you to say. You've probably been riding since before you could walk."
"Since I was six," Bishop admitted, so
