“A phone call?” the translator asked, looking just about as alarmed as Kamil felt.

“Not a call,” Kamil said, looking down at the screen.

You’re in danger. Escape. Crock o’ Shit will attack.

“Partial truth,” Crock o’ Shit said, making a hand motion.

Yosef had a question.

“A signal?” the translator asked. Yosef barked a single word in another language, and this one wasn’t translated for Kamil and Natalie’s benefit. Guards by the door lowered guns, pointing them at Kamil. Natalie shrieked, scooting back, and one gun followed her.

Kamil, slowly put the phone down on the table, before lifting his hands.

Yosef picked up the device, then handed it to the translator.

Yosef was tense, back rigid, as he looked over the translators shoulder.

They’re so scared. Gold Morning caught us by surprise, but it came and went quickly. They effectively lost their world to a parahuman takeover and endured it for years.

“Medication.”

Medication.

Ashley and Sveta both knew he took medication at mealtimes. Had they—?

To be safe, Kamil clapped his hand to his chest twice, looking at Yosef.

One word, barked.

“What medication?” the translator asked.

Forcing his hand.

“Nitroglycerin. For my heart.”

Crock o’ Shit nodded when Yosef looked at her.

Yosef put the phone down. Kamil could read it upside-down. The screen had changed to an alarm telling him to take his nitroglycerin for his heart.

“You looked scared,” the translator stated, following Yosef’s response. The man was growling more than he was speaking now, his words a mumble, like being audible and clear for Kamil and Natalie wasn’t even a consideration anymore, that he was that angry.

“I was almost positive I turned my phone off. I clearly agitated all of you.”

“Partially true,” Crock o’ Shit said.

The translator echoed both statements, then listened while Yosef responded.

“I’m losing my patience,” the translator said, while Yosef stared down Kamil. “I don’t trust you.”

“I’m sorry that’s the case,” Kamil answered.

Yosef asked a guard a question.

The guard, in turn, opened the door, asking someone outside.

“Yes,” was the one word, accented response, in English.

Another question.

“All of them are accounted for. They’re in the plaza.”

Yosef spoke, not as much of a growl now, but the look in his eyes was all steel and darkness, his face even more humorless than before.

“Let’s get this over with,” the Translator said. “You’ll go to Sveta Karelia’s cell to talk with her and wait while we organize the others. This will free our guards to manage the other parahumans.”

How to get out of this? He picked up his phone, and the screen changed as soon as it wasn’t facing anyone else.

A button to press if he needed help. If there was anything else, he didn’t see it. He couldn’t study his phone for too long without drawing attention.

“Crock o’ Shit will escort you.”

Did he hit the button now? There was a reason they hadn’t just come to help and had left it an option. It was dangerous if they helped. Costly.