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A wave of exhaustion hits you as the sun rises fully. The Kindred were not meant to remain awake during daylight hours, and you look around for anywhere safe you might rest.

You're in a small, sealed back office crowded with dusty furniture. An old tarp covers a chair. You grab the tarp and use it to walk a rusted filing cabinet in front of the open window, blocking the sunlight. You check the door; it's unlocked and opens onto a long-deserted convenience store. Shafts of sunlight cut through the room from gaps in the wooden boards, so you quickly close the door. You're trapped in this little office, but you can't worry about that now.

You huddle in the corner, behind the little desk, as far as you can position yourself from the window.

Then you mentally inventory all the things you do need to worry about: your ruined car, the ache of Hunger in your gums, the smell of fresh blood somewhere in this building, the strange eagle.

You may not survive another night. But you survived this one. You survived the Sabbat, and then their disappearance. You survived out here in the desert for years, one night at a time. You permit yourself a tight little smile. You can still make it. You can still find a way out of this.

And then the blackness of the day-sleep swallows you.

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