The school basement had two exits and neither of them liked children.
Kael wedged one door with a book cart and his shoulder, breathing steady so the kids copied the rhythm without knowing why.
Olli lined glow sticks on the floor like a broke man's runway, green light pooling where the concrete sloped to an old drain.
Amara crouched by a child with a paper crown and a shoe untied, fingers quick, voice quicker, "Count my hands," and the girl did, and her breath stopped being a knife.
Callum set a kettle on a camp stove he'd steal back later and made water a reason to stay still.
Upstairs, the hallway tasted of bleach and wrong promises.
Arden took the shard from her pocket and felt its heat decide she mattered again.
The door at the end opened and the lieutenant in the crisp coat walked in like he'd been born where rules come from.
"Trade," he said, palms visible, shadow late.
"No," Arden said, because not having to think is a gift you save for days like this.
