I grab the money off the counter. Closing my eyes, I allow myself one more moment of gut-wrenching self-pity. Then, without anyone’s help, I swallow it down, sneak out the back door, and hobble down the stairs.

Mist floats in thick swells like waves around our backyard and alley. Like Pavlov’s dog, the second I see it, my lungs start burning. Each inhale scrapes against the back of my throat despite my morning cocktail on the nebulizer.

I follow the brick pavers that cut a path across our yard and imagine heavy clouds concealing the city’s height, lingering around the tops of buildings on Michigan Avenue just a mile or so in the distance.

Our back gate creaks when I open it. Before passing through, I strain every sense, scrutinizing the alley for anything that feels off. A chill creeps along the back of my neck, but I ignore it. It’s just the weather.

Shifting my backpack on my shoulders, I head toward the nearest street. I make it two steps before the gate slams behind me, clanging against its latch. The pop cracks like a gunshot. I jolt back, stumbling on my injured foot. Stinging sears through me the moment I press down.

Determined to get out of the alley, I walk as fast as I can. Gravel crunches beneath my feet in an uneven cadence as I curse my beat-up body and the air for being so chilly and damp.

At the side street, the mist thins and hovers low over the road. Aside from that, it’s empty. No movement on the one-way street or its sidewalks. I hang a left and head toward the nearest intersection for a cab, hobbling along like a complete idiot at a ridiculous, slow pace. My foot still burns, but like everything else, eventually I’ll become numb to the pain.

I hone in on my destination, the heavy morning traffic two blocks away. As I do, someone turns the corner heading toward me on the sidewalk.

I freeze.

The deliberate way he walks at me. His height. His face dipped beneath a baseball cap.

He’s part of the Swarm.

A block and a half away, I can’t outrun him. Even without an injured foot, I won’t make it home before he chases me down. My eyes flit up and down the street. The nearest house—I need to run to it, bang on the door, hope someone answers in time.

Before my legs have time to react, he lifts his head.

Ryan.

I cough, unaware I’d been holding my breath.

Yesterday, when I heard his voice on my back porch, I was skeptical, uneasy about opening the door. But as my heart rate steadies, relief settles over me at seeing him today.