Justin raised three fingers.
The gas station sat like a glowing island in the dark—too bright, too exposed. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, flickering just enough to make the shadows around the building feel alive, stretching and shrinking along the cracked pavement like they were breathing. The air smelled like gasoline and hot asphalt, mixed with something faintly rotten that Justin refused to think too hard about, the kind of smell that clung to the back of the throat. Somewhere nearby, a loose sign rattled softly in the breeze, a hollow metallic clink that made every nerve in his body tighten.
The Jeep was wedged behind the dumpsters, hidden but not safe. The metal bins radiated heat and sour rot, flies humming lazily around the edges despite the hour. Nothing felt safe anymore.
Mari's hand closed around Justin's wrist before he could lower the third finger. Her grip was firm—anchoring. "Wait," she whispered. Her voice barely carried over the hum of the lights. "What's the plan?"
Justin swallowed, forcing his breathing to stay slow even as his pulse thudded hard in his ears. He reached into his jacket and pulled out the screwdriver, the metal cold and reassuring in his palm, grounding him in something solid. He held it low between them. "Back door. Old lock. I pry it."
Tally scoffed softly. "You've never broken into anything."
"I've seen it done," Justin said, eyes never leaving the building, tracking the flicker of shadows near the corner. "Online. TV."
"That's not experience," she snapped.
Tally's gaze drifted toward the front of the store, where the glass windows reflected the empty lot, distorting the world into pale shapes and glare. "There's a night window by the door. It's not even that high. I could fit through it."
Mari stiffened instantly. "No."
"It's open," Justin said sharply. "Lit. Anyone—or anything—could see you."
"And hear you," Kenzie added quietly, clutching Barbie closer. The dog trembled in her arms, ears flat, eyes wide, nose twitching as if it sensed something long before the humans did.
Tally crossed her arms. "You're all being dramatic. It's a gas station, not Fort Knox."
"It's a beacon," Justin said. "And we're not doing it your way."
For a second, it looked like Tally might explode. Her jaw clenched, eyes flashing, lips pressing thin. Then she looked away—dismissive, offended, already pulling away from them emotionally, the way she always did when she felt ignored.
Justin turned to Kenzie. "Bathroom first. Barbie goes. Then straight back to the car. Lock the doors."
Kenzie nodded, swallowing hard, her throat working as she fought down panic.
"Mari and Tally are lookout," Justin continued. "Mari watches me. Tally watches Kenzie."
Tally opened her mouth. "I still think—"
"I don't have time," Justin cut in. "Three."
They moved.
Justin slipped toward the back of the building, staying close to the wall where the light didn't quite reach, every step deliberate. His skin crawled with the certainty that sound traveled farther than it should now—that every footstep mattered, that the night itself was listening. Mari positioned herself halfway between him and the lot, scanning constantly, her shoulders tight, head turning in sharp, controlled movements.
Kenzie crouched by the Jeep, whispering encouragement as Barbie shuffled forward, paws skidding slightly on the pavement. The dog relieved herself quickly, whining softly, tail tucked, body low as if trying to disappear.
Tally lingered by the car, arms folded, eyes fixed on the front of the store.
Justin jammed the screwdriver into the back lock, heart pounding so hard he was sure Mari could hear it. The metal scraped—too loud, too sharp, the sound echoing in his skull. He froze, waiting, breath locked in his chest.
Nothing.
He pushed harder.
Click.
The lock gave.
Justin eased the door open, slipping inside with Mari right behind him. The storage room was empty—just shelves, cardboard boxes, a stale smell of dust and old syrup. The emergency light overhead buzzed faintly, casting everything in a sickly yellow glow that made the corners feel deeper than they should've been.
Justin whistled softly—the signal.
Kenzie hurried forward once Barbie was back in the car, slipping inside and pulling the door shut behind her, hands shaking as the latch clicked.
"Bathrooms. Supplies. Fast," Justin whispered.
Then he felt it.
That cold drop in his gut, sharp and instinctive.
"Where's Tally?"
Kenzie frowned. "She was right there."
Mari's breath caught. "She wasn't with me."
Justin's pulse spiked. He didn't need confirmation.
"She went to the front," Mari whispered.
Justin swore under his breath and moved.
They crept through the store, shelves towering on either side—chips, candy, soda bottles rattling faintly as the building vibrated with distant impacts. The smell inside was worse. Old grease. Stale coffee. Something coppery underneath that made Justin's stomach turn.
As they neared the front, Mari slowed.
Stopped.
Her breath hitched so sharply Justin felt it in his own chest.
She lifted her hand, trembling.
"Tally," she whispered. "Justin—"
Justin followed her gaze.
Tally stood at the front window, pressed close to the glass, testing the frame with her hands. She leaned back slightly, squinting, calculating—measuring her shoulders, her hips, oblivious to everything else.
She smiled.
A small, confident smile.
Like she'd already decided she could fit.
Behind her, reflected faintly in the glass—
movement.
A shape shuffled into the light.
Small.
Too small.
Justin's stomach dropped.
It was a child.
Barefoot. Pajama pants soaked dark at the knees. One sleeve torn completely away. Its head lolled at an unnatural angle, hair matted stiff with blood. Its mouth hung open, jaw working slowly, wetly, as if chewing something that wasn't there anymore.
Justin recognized it instantly.
The child from earlier.
The one the man had been carrying.
The one that had slipped from his arms when he fell.
The child's chest jerked with each broken breath. Its hands twitched, fingers curled wrong, nails dark with dried blood. One eye was swollen shut. The other stared blankly—unseeing, unfocused, but drawn to sound.
To movement.
To Tally.
Tally tapped the glass again, annoyed now, attention fixed entirely on the window.
She didn't see the reflection.
Didn't hear the soft, dragging steps behind her.
Didn't notice the way the child's head lifted at the sound.
Mari's hand flew to her mouth to stifle a scream.
Justin's heart slammed against his ribs.
"Tally," he breathed, barely a sound.
The child took another step.
Closer.
Its mouth opened wider.
And Tally was still smiling at the glass— still convinced her plan was the right one.