The First Cut
The safe house felt like a tomb with better lighting. We stayed buried in that concrete bunker for three more days, the kind of days that didn’t pass so much as they bled together into one long, agonizingly slow stretch of gray. Time was measured only by the rhythmic hum of the ventilation fan and the arrival of the local doctor. He’d breeze in twice a day, smelling of cheap cigarettes and sulfur soap, to prod at Kai’s torso, mutter dark warnings about sepsis risks in the humidity, and leave behind more blister packs of antibiotics. Outside, Lena’s remaining crew rotated watches. Every time they came through the heavy steel door to swap shifts, their expressions were a little tighter, their eyes a little more bloodshot. The unsaid truth hung in the damp air like a fog: the net was closing
- Writer
