Chapter Thirty-Six: Shelter

They followed the service tunnel until it spat them out near the edge of the freight yard — a wasteland of rusted boxcars, puddles reflecting cracked sky, and graffiti that looked more honest than any sign they'd seen above ground.

Someone spotted them first — a wiry girl perched atop an overturned shopping cart, her knees hugged to her chest. She whistled once, sharp and birdlike, and shapes stirred behind abandoned cars and rotting pallets.

A boy with a blue scarf tied over half his face stepped forward. He looked no older than Rafi, but his eyes held an adult sort of weariness. He asked no names, demanded no stories. He just jerked his chin at an old boxcar with a broken door, then vanished again among the scattered packs of kids.

Inside the boxcar smelled of wet cardboard and stale sweat, but it was warm enough to stop their shaking. The braid girl settled into a corner first, arms wrapped around her knees. Rafi hovered by the door, half-expecting someone to drag them out for stealing warmth that wasn't theirs.

No one did.

These kids weren't family. They were orbiting planets — each with their own moons of loss and quiet rage. Some whispered secrets in the dark; some curled up alone, listening for footsteps that meant trouble. Rafi saw hunger in every face. A few watched him and the braid girl like animals sizing up a threat they couldn't name.

One kid — a skinny boy with fingernails chewed raw — crept close enough to drop a crumpled pack of crackers in Rafi's lap. Rafi pushed it gently toward the braid girl first. She ate without blinking, crumbs stuck to her lip.

Night fell like a bruise across the yard. Fires burned in old oil drums; laughter flickered around them, low and nervous. Somewhere, two older boys argued over stolen batteries and a bent spoon. No one cared what gods or monsters the hush might whisper about.

But for Rafi, the hush was louder now — the city walls not thick enough to muffle it. It rustled under every heartbeat, tugging at the tender bruise of his memory. You could leave all this noise behind, it seemed to promise. You could sink deeper, back to where roots listen and fear sleeps.

He caught the braid girl staring at him through the firelight. Her eyes, wide and ancient, shimmered in the smoke. She didn't say forest but he knew that's what she meant when her gaze drifted past the boxcar walls and back to the dark line of trees beyond the freight yard.

Sleep didn't come easy. He lay beside her in the corner, the hush purring between their shoulders, and wondered if being surrounded by other broken kids made them safer — or just reminded them how alone they really were.

Somewhere beyond the yard, sirens sang a lullaby for all the lost children. The hush laughed at it — a soft giggle against the edge of his ribs, daring him to dream about deeper roots and softer graves.