Page 51 of Knight

“This leads outside. Can you climb up or do you need help?” His eyes drop to my wrists. “The drop on the other side isn’t much.”

I don’t know how I do it, but I get up and over. Knight lands lightly beside me, and takes my arm again. Every time a car passes, we sink back into the shadows until the threat hasgone. The sun has set, but cities never truly go dark, not like it was in the ventilation tunnels. Neon signs and street lights cast uncertain shadows.

My wrists throb with each step, the bandages around them damp with what I suspect is blood rather than sweat. The adrenaline from our escape is wearing off, leaving bone-deep exhaustion in its wake. I’m acutely aware of how long I've been wearing these clothes, how badly I need a shower, and how much everything that has happened in the past two days clings to my skin like a physical presence.

We finally emerge onto a street I don’t recognize. The buildings here are older, rougher. A neon sign flickers weakly outside a motel, advertising vacant rooms at rates that suggest questions aren’t part of the service.

“In here.” Knight guides me across the parking lot and into the motel’s reception.

Wallpaper peels off the walls, and there’s a damp, moldy smell. Knight doesn’t seem to notice. He approaches the desk with the kind of confidence that suggests he’s done this before. I hang back by the door and watch as he interacts with the clerk. No paperwork exchanges hands, just cash. Lots of it. Produced out of a pocket and folded into a fat bundle. The clerk’s expression doesn’t change as he hands over a key.

“Room 115.” Knight’s hand settles on my elbow, steering me toward a corner unit, partially hidden by overgrown bushes. “Ground floor. Two exits. No cameras.”

The room smells of industrial cleaner, stale alcohol and old cigarettes. There’s an old-style television on top of a dresser, a chair that’s seen better decades, a desk that looks like a slight breeze might break it, and one bed. But the light works when Knight flips the switch, and right now that alone feels like a luxury.

“We need supplies.” He studies me like he’s calculating odds. “Are you going to do something stupid if I leave you here?”

“Define stupid.”

“Anything that draws attention. Anything that makes noise. Anything that involves trying to contact someone.” His eyes narrow. “Basically, anything you’re thinking about right now.”

I perch on the edge of the bed. “My wrists hurt. My legs ache. I feel like I’ve got every bit of dirt from those tunnels in my hair. The only thing I’m thinking about right now is whether I have enough energy to take a shower. I’m not planning on running anywhere.”

He stares at me for a second longer, then nods. “Good choice.” He moves to the door. “Twenty minutes. Try not to get yourself killed while I’m gone. Anddon’topen the door.”

The lock clicks behind him. I wait thirty seconds, counting each one, before pushing myself to my feet. My eyes go to the door. I could leave. I could walk out and find the nearest police station, and tell them where he is, and what he did.

I take two steps toward it, change my mind, turn and stumble my way into the bathroom. The light switch is on the wall, and my palm hits it. The light comes on, flickers a few times, then settles. My eyes immediately seek out the mirror. The reflection shows a stranger. Tangled hair, skin smeared with dirt from the tunnels, dark circles under my eyes. The bandages on my wrists are definitely covered in blood.

The shower sputters to life with surprising force. The water even gets hot. I shed my dirty clothes with shaking fingers, letting them fall into a heap on the floor. The shower’s spray stings against cuts I wasn’t even aware of, but it feels like heaven. I use the thin motel soap to scrub every trace of the past two days from my skin, trying very hard to keep the bandages away from the water as much as possible, and failing. But I can’t bring myself to care. Not from the stings, not from the soakedmaterial, not from the fact I should have run away while I had the chance.

My first indication that Knight has returned is when a knock sounds on the bathroom door. I’m still standing under the shower, my head tipped back, the spray cascading down my face.

“Come out here. Don’t get those bandages wet.”

“Too late.” I shut off the water, and wrap myself in one of the threadbare towels hanging on the rail. “They’re already soaked.”

A sigh filters through the door. “There are clothes out here. I had to guess sizes.”

I crack the door open just enough for him to hand me a plastic bag, and retreat back into the bathroom. Inside it, I find basic clothing. A pair of sweatpants, a plain T-shirt, and socks. No underwear, though. There’s also deodorant, a hairbrush, and basic toiletries.

The clothes fit well enough, although it feels odd not having any underwear beneath them, but they’re soft and clean. When I finally emerge from the bathroom, it’s to find medical supplies all over the small table. But I don’t care about those. What holds my attention is the bag from a fast-food place that sits beside them. The smell of fries wakes up my stomach.

“Sit down. Let me look at your wrists.”

I hesitate, but the bandages are a mess, and my arms are aching. I sit on the edge of the bed, and Knight drags the chair over. His fingers are surprisingly gentle as he unwinds the soaked gauze.

"The cuts have reopened." His touch is clinical as he examines the damage. "Crawling through those tunnels didn't help."

“Neither did the handcuffs that caused them.”

A muscle pops in his jaw but he doesn’t respond. Instead, he focuses on cleaning the wounds. The antiseptic stings, but I manage not to flinch. I think I’ve become accustomed to theconstant pain by now. His fingers are calloused but sure as he applies butterfly bandages to the deeper cuts.

“Why are you doing this?” The question slips out before I can stop it.

“Because infection in tight spaces is inconvenient.” He wraps fresh gauze around my right wrist. “And you’re of no use to me delirious with fever.”

“Are you always so practical?”

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