Chapter 8 · Through the Mask

"Get your knee off my spine or I break your wrist." Milo's voice comes out flat, no strain in it, even with my whole weight driving him into the grate.

"Move your hand off Auth-04 first." I don't loosen anything. His forearm is trapped under my palm, his fingers still clawing for the dead panel like it's going to light up for him if he wants it bad enough. It won't. Nothing in this box answers to either of us anymore.

04:00. 03:59. The numbers keep dropping on the emergency strip above the hatch, red and stupid and not slowing down for anyone.

Milo bucks under me, one hard roll of his hips that almost throws me off the grate entirely. Bone knocks bone — his shoulder into my ribs, my knee catching the edge of the steel slat hard enough to bruise. I grab a fistful of his collar and slam him back down, and that's when I smell it.

Not sweat. Not the recycled ozone stink this whole container's been breathing since the door sealed. Something under my mask, sharp and hot, cutting straight through the filter like the filter isn't even there.

"Your patch," I say.

"What."