CHAPTER 8
ROOSTER
It is not the movement that lets us know when it’s time to go, but a rapping on the door of the cargo container. Blade’s the one who pulls the garage-style door up to reveal a wisp of a man wearing the same leggings as Isabelle and a heavy winter sweater better suited to an arctic fisherman.
He nods to the cargo hold as a whole, then turns on one booted heel and heads away, leaving us scrambling to follow. We’re prepared—mostly—but just throwing our few items into our duffels and shoving our feet into sneakers leaves us lagging with his frantic pace. We have to rush to catch him, that t**t, his shiny hair flipping in the wind between rows of cargo crates, most of them probably filled with food or footwear instead of humans.
He cuts right at the end of the row and vani
