She’d crossed half the room, winding through cots and past men twitching and groaning in their nightmares. Some babbled echoes of their conversation: “no key,” key, “key,” some token, “give name on the roll roll roll” …

“I set it down,” she said, “over here on the sill.” And moved, slowly, toward the window through which she’d come. One step at a time. Keep eye contact, and hope the woman didn’t put it all together—

The woman frowned and said, “Stop right there.”

Izza ran, and behind her the woman shouted, “Stop!” as loud as she could, and the hopheads writhed and echoed, “Stop!” as Izza vaulted over the windowsill, glanced down, and let herself fall.

Pinwheeling through space, stomach up in her throat, strangling a cry for the nothingth of a second before she struck the cloth awning below, feet first and toes pointed so she’d punch through rather than bouncing off. Grabbed for the awning’s support rail, caught it; the structure groaned and buckled under her sudden weight, but held at least long enough for her to swing into the third-floor window and crouch, gulping air, under a sagging cot that stank of sweat and urine. The awning tumbled to the ground outside in a clash of tortured metal, and guards ran up the stairs. Five sets of booted feet, she counted. Shouting, confusion—“Get to the street!”—as she crept toward the stairwell.

Then more running, downstairs, three forms, four, and she ran after the fifth, heart in her throat, down the stairwell toward the open front door, past the wide-eyed doorman into the street, trailing the doorman’s incoherent curses and cries. The guards in front of her ran left, toward the fallen awning. She ran right, turned the corner into the narrow alley that ran ridgeward toward the Godsdistrikt, and sprinted down it, cobblestones pounding beneath her feet and freedom in her heart. She glanced back over her shoulder to make sure she wasn’t followed.

She ran into someone, strong and unyielding in the shadows.

A hand grabbed Izza’s shoulder. She pressed into her assailant, using her momentum—kneed hard for the groin, but a hand swept her knee aside. Clawed for the eyes, but the head dodged back out of reach, and the dodge kept going, turned to a swivel of hip that swept Izza’s body through the air and slammed her against the wall hard enough to knock air from her lungs. Her arms were pinned, but she could still kick, could bite, could spit into those green eyes—

“For fuck’s sake, kid,” Cat said. “I’m trying to help you here.”

Izza stared, uncomprehending, into Cat’s face.

“Come on,” the woman whispered. “Let’s get back home.”