And there’s the cook from the original camp in the woods. He was nice to me and gave me an extra scoop of stew when he found out I was new. He rolls a cart with packages of crackers and Fruit Roll-Ups down the hall.

Everyone looks exhausted. And everyone is armed to the teeth – handguns, rifles, knives, tire irons, and anything that might cut, smash, or rip. Everyone here carries at least two weapons.

Raffe pulls his cap lower onto his face. I can tell he’s tense. He’s in enemy territory. Now that I think about it, he’s always in enemy territory no matter whose turf it is. Without his feathered wings, the angels won’t accept him. And regardless of what kind of wings he has, humans won’t accept him either.

Uriel or someone in his crew once said that angels were made to be part of a pack, but no matter where Raffe goes, he always seems to be the outsider.

Luckily, no one seems to be paying attention to him here. In this building, the name that I hear the most is Obi’s.

‘Obi wants us to—’

‘But I thought Obi’s plan was—’

‘Yeah, that’s what Obi said.’

‘Need Obi’s permission for—’

‘Authorized by Obi.’

‘Obi will deal with them.’

The two buildings definitely have their own personalities. One houses a refugee camp while the other holds a freedom-fighting army. Obi certainly has his hands full keeping the last dregs of humanity together during the worst crisis in history.

And I thought I had it bad trying to keep my family alive. I can’t imagine how much pressure he must feel being responsible for all these lives.

A couple of guys with construction-worker tans and muscles turn to ogle me as we approach. Beside me, Raffe makes a low growl. The guys take one look at him and glance respectfully away.

I pause to talk to them. ‘I’m looking for the twins – Dee and Dum. Do you know where they are?’

One of them points to a room down the hall. We walk over, and I push open the door without thinking about what might be inside.

‘—hotels,’ says Obi at the head of a conference table. ‘How are we holding up on food and medical—’ He glances up and notices me. He looks as tired as the rest of them, but his eyes are still bright and alert. He’s not the biggest nor the loudest, but there’s still something about him that commands attention. Maybe it’s his straight posture or the confidence in his voice.

There are about a dozen people around him, sitting at a conference table. Everyone looks haggard and exhausted, with dark circles beneath their eyes and unwashed hair sticking out in various directions. It must have been a long night of saving Alcatraz refugees, then an even longer day of getting them settled in.