Chapter 17 · Coordinates in the Fog

The alarm ripped through my skull, and Dominic already had my wrist pinned.

"Up."

"I'm up."

Liar. I'd passed out hard on the cot in the counting room, pencil still jammed in my grip, page forty of the ledger glued to my cheek by cold sweat.

He was wearing yesterday's shirt. Unbuttoned at the bottom. The gauze showed stark white against his skin, soaked with fresh seepage. Stitches from two nights ago. The ones I'd watched the doc sew shut with black thread while Dominic didn't make a sound. He wasn't supposed to be on his feet, let alone hauling me upright.

"Dominic. Your side."

"My side's fine."

"It's bleeding through your damn shirt."

He didn't blink. His radio crackled, spitting static before Tomas broke through. "East wall, boss. One runner. He cleared the kitchen courtyard. Hurt bad."

Dominic keyed the mic. "How bad?"

"Leaking like a stuck pig. Gray cardigan. Looked like some kind of desk clerk."

A clerk. Sable didn't hire clerks. Sable hired men who carried lead pipes and took fingernails for collateral.

Dominic dragged me toward the stairs.