I force myself to take a long, slow inhale. The fog isn’t clogging my throat. It isn’t even real, I remind myself. I need to think clearly. If that sound came from the island, that means someone is out there waiting for me, and if I accidentally run toward them I might as well serve myself up to the mayor on a platter. But if the sound came from farther down the bridge—where the Beings are permanent, where they’ve been known to lie in wait for new exiles—and I run that way …

Deep in the fog, the clinking echoes again. My body makes the decision for me. I turn ninety degrees and sprint in the opposite direction of the sound.

My footfalls smack against the concrete. My breath comes in gulped-down gasps. I’ve taken more than five steps by now. Haven’t I? It’s too far, farther than the entrance should be. I’m running toward the mainland. Which means I need to turn around.

But before I can, a shape looms out of the fog ahead of me.

I curse, my fingers tightening around the transmitter as I try to stop, but its weight pulls me off-balance. The best I can do is turn so that my shoulder crashes into the shape rather than the transmitter. My foot lands wrong and I slip, then hit the ground hard on my back.

I go still.

Birds sing. Thunder rolls. My right shoulder aches from the impact. Whatever I hit, it had no give to it. Not like a person would. But it didn’t have that cool obsidian feel of a Being, either. I dare to lift my head.

A Valkyrie statue looms above me, blank gaze fixed somewhere on the horizon. I’m at the bridge’s entrance.

I close my eyes and drop my head back to the ground, muttering a brief but fervent thank you, and then clamber to my feet. My back is soaked from the standing water, but I managed to keep the transmitter dry and intact, at least.

I look around. The road is empty. There’s no one in sight. The sky is still oddly yellow and cluttered with birds, and the distant rolls of thunder are getting much louder. I glance at the beach below the bridge’s steep embankment. The storm surge looks high, and the waves seem bigger than they were when I went into the fog. The eye wall is approaching fast.

It’s good news. The radios will have been brought into the town’s designated shelters for the length of the hurricane, in case of emergency transmission from City Hall. I’ll be able to reach most or even all of the islanders with a broadcast now, which means my plan might actually stand a chance at success.

If I can make it to my loft undetected. If Elliott escaped capture.