The Sleeping Thing

The next day, the sky was veiled in a dirty yellow haze. A murky light bathed the camp, as if the world had been whitewashed in lye. The time had come.

Dylan had slipped out of his cot well before dawn, silent, leaving the other workers snoring in their sweat. He'd taken care to close the canvas flap behind him, and stepped into the dry morning mist, the bandages around his torso slightly tightened. The stigma pulsed softly, but he ignored it. For now, at least.

He paused for a few moments behind the north hangar—his usual post. From there, he could see the preparations for the convoy: three transport carts covered in green tarps, one loaded with metal crates, the other two meant for passengers and equipment. A handful of soldiers moved briskly, arms full, tension on their faces. A few workers added cables, secured wheels, checked the horses. Everything felt improvised, rushed, almost desperate.

He didn't have much time.