I act on instinct and speed back the way I came, my legs carrying me, my eyes surveying for patrols. Upon turning the nearest corner, through the haze of my thoughts, I wrestle with my options. The safest is to flee to my boarding room. The most desirous is to confront him.

The fact I’m unsure if he’d be honest shakes me to the core.

Suddenly disoriented as to precisely where I am, I’ll default to trailing him for now. Perhaps his next stop could explain much more.

Across the street, partially outlined by the moon, a large decorative feature adorns a pub entrance. I dash over, lacking time to think. It’s a wooden barrel stood upright. I crouch behind it, tight as a ball. Regulating my breaths, I wait.

Soon come light footfalls. They travel past me and continue on. I peek just over the barrel to find him rounding the corner. A reversal of his route.

I accelerate in his wake down the vacant street. At the next corner building, I stretch my neck for a cautious look.

No sign of him.

I listen for footsteps, hear nothing. He could have slipped through another doorway. Or he’s hiding from a patrol. Not that he’d need to, apparently. It’s no wonder he’s violating curfew, while I’m brazenly pressing my luck.

With soft steps, I proceed past another shop and around a brick column. That’s when something covers my mouth, yanking me back, a hand from behind. The shriek that leaps from my throat is muffled by a grip. An object presses into my side. The muzzle of a gun. Held in the cove of a doorway, I feel a man’s chest tight against my back. My breaths pass in and out of my nose, fast and audible.

A terse whisper meets my ear. “Niet schreeuwen.” Don’t yell.

It’s Arie. He’s Arie…

But sensing his finger on the trigger, I muster a nod, as much as his grasp on me allows.

“Wie bent u?”

Who are you? he wants to know. His hand loosens for my answer but hovers at my chin, poised to clamp down.

I state clearly, “It’s Fenna.”

There’s a flinch through his body, then for a moment stillness. His lowering of the weapon allows me to breathe easier before he turns me around by the shoulder. Our faces mere inches away, his shadowed features gain distinction.

“Fen?” Shock filters through his rasp. “What…what the hell are you doing here?”

Though still recovering, I straighten. The role of interrogator is mine, not his. “It’s exactly what I’m here to ask you.”

Beneath the brim of his hat, his eyes are darting back and forth between mine, seeking to comprehend the situation.

I’m about to push harder when a noise echoes in the distance. We both whip toward it.

Only quiet follows.