They dropped as one while the bay behind and the lane ahead both decided at once to close.
Gravel bit elbows. Chain-link hummed on Gavin's shoulder. The shape inside the corner froze, breath close enough to taste.
"Easy," the man said again. "Don't—"
"Hands." Gavin slid the saber's guard under the shin—warning, not cut. "Show me."
Palms rose at ear height, shaking. Soap, sweat. A silhouette more crouch than stand.
"Talk quiet," Madison breathed, poker angled.
"I'm not one of them," the man whispered. "Corner's dead to the street. They sweep the lane. They think you'll choose light."
Theo from the road agreed with a smile. "Right is clear." A flashlight painted a low ribbon on asphalt, careful never to take faces. "Cold's a maze."
"Keep him left of us," Gavin said. Fence to thigh, block to shoulder. The woman crabbed beside him, fists in Madison's shirt. Three bodies, one plan. Cold, not road.
Behind, metal screamed as the roll-up lost another inch to patience. The dolly chirped. From the bay, someone said "now" like choices were late.
"Who are you?" Gavin asked the crouched man without looking. "Teeth."
The man bared them. They knocked with cold, not hunger. "I'm—"
"Later," Gavin said. [CHECK: identity] "Walk when we walk. Stay outside our feet."
They slid. Theo's light drew a new ribbon farther down like chalk on a board. "Road's where people are still people, coach."
Language is a net. Gavin watched feet: soft shoes; one bare foot and one flat; trainers whispering; shadows under the roll-up turning into teeth.
The corridor door vomited one body into the yard—fast on hands, knees bleeding. It ran flat at the fence panel they'd used, bounced off, tried again without understanding bounce.
"Left," Gavin said. "Now."
They hugged fence toward deeper hedges and a longer shadow. On their right, the lane paled to sky. On their left, the mansion went blind. A generator coughed inland and caught [CHECK: generator pad placement].
"Don't stand," the crouched man said. "Their eyes like elbows and heads."
"Smart," Madison said.
The roll-up's chain lost, found, lost. The slit jumped to a crawl; the dolly skated a foot. A hand flattened under the lip. Gavin put the guard on knuckles and wrote pain in a language fingers read. The slit fell crooked, feral mouth with a tooth out.
The flashlight clicked off. Wind shook the fence. Theo spoke closer without steps. "You're making the wrong shape."
"Keep moving," Gavin said.
Past the corner, the ground dipped into a shallow swale and a square drain sunk in gravel under a raft of dead leaves [CHECK: drain/swale presence]. A busted cooler lodged there. Cold watched from shrubs.
"Hole," the woman breathed, tapping Madison's calf. He shortened his step without looking back.
They slid down, up, scrub grabbing with small teeth. From the bay, bodies learned the fence belly and began to pull in a method that sounded like thinking. Wire sang. Under buys minutes, not hours.
Gavin touched the drain's lip—iron old as ships. A utility cabinet bled hum beside it, padlock fat and clean. Good cover. Bad noise. "Left again," he said.
Theo whistled once, tuneless. Gravel ticked. "No hurry," he said. "Cold keeps you. We move in light."
"I hear him," Gavin whispered. "Eyes on feet. Count slick places."
They came to a long hedge stitched with dead fairy bulbs on a wire trellis that drooped where anchors had failed. Beyond, the property sloped to another fence. Streetlamps blurred the far horizon.
"Low pipe at shin," the crouched man warned.
Gavin found the cold irrigation line and guided Madison's leg with a tap. The pipe squealed under weight—small, heart-loud. No light. No shout.
Behind, the roll-up screamed and flew a foot. The chain spat links and clanged. The dolly shot like a freed dog. Feet took the gap. Calm. Learning. Theo didn't say anything.
"Faster," Gavin said. "Still low."
They threaded the hedge seam. Leaves wet his cheek. He left the flash of a field and its rules where it belonged.
They stopped on the crouched man's hiss. The night sorted itself: sirens rearranged a city; soft shoes in the lane changed angle; the fence panel yowled and gave up for later.
"Man at the corner," Madison whispered. "Inside the fence."
"Two," the crouched man breathed. "They wait for shapes."
"Like you," Gavin said.
"I waited for light. They wait for motion."
"Left again," Gavin said. "Ground dips, then rises."
They made the dip. The woman slid a hand on block to keep balance, breath in measured pairs. She never yanked. She never sprinted. She was a machine built for this minute. Faces later. Feet now.
The wall ended at a square pillar where a gate had once latched. The gate lay in dead rosemary like a jawbone. They stepped over pickets. The lane narrowed between a utility shed and sculpted hedge. The shed said STAFF in faded letters and offered a hinge and hasp.
"Through there," the crouched man breathed. "Door swings as cover."
"Locked," Madison said.
Gavin levered the hasp with the saber's guard. Metal sang and failed. The door moved three inches and hit a box or god. "Don't," the woman whispered. "Smells wrong." Wet fur and bleach. He eased it shut.
"You'll tire yourselves," Theo called, almost kind. "Trade: you pick the road; we keep you from getting trampled."
"Don't answer," Gavin said. He wants a yes that sounds like relief.
They slid into a pocket patio behind the shed, trapped on three sides by hedge and block. The fourth opened to the service drive—wide, clean, leading straight to the road. The flashlight stroked it soft. To the left, true dark: trees, slope, the hint of a chain across a cul-de-sac [CHECK: chain across service spur].
"Road or cold," Madison said.
"Cold," Gavin said.
"Wait," the crouched man breathed. "Listen." Left held leaf talk. Right held careful footwork—two sets, weight placed like men who'd taught themselves not to trip. The flashlight traced another path and died again, keeping their pupils big for somebody else's benefit.
"Cold," Gavin repeated, and cut left. A chain kissed his shin; he lowered it for the others. It chimed and settled.
"Voices right," Madison said.
"Go," Gavin said.
They entered trees that had been art yesterday and were teeth now. Branches wrote lines on his forearms. Ankles did math. The crouched man slid well; the woman counted steps under her breath like a metronome. The saber's dull edge lifted to save noise.
Time thickened around them, thinned behind, thinner where the road waited like a stage. Gavin counted one. Then two. He didn't give himself three.
The trees opened on a concrete rectangle sunk in earth, fenced on three sides with metal pickets. A generator squatted there—yellow belly, louvers like gills, a control box with a green LED that blinked slow [CHECK: generator LED state]. The hum they'd tasted earlier lived here. The maintenance gate wore a cheap chain and a smarter lock.
"Cover," Gavin said. "Backs to the box. Not long."
"They'll hear the hum," the crouched man said.
"They already know we like cold."
They tucked into the lee. Metal radiated tired heat. The hum hid small sounds and made big ones feel far. From the lane, a roof-shape crouched on the shed peak and sniffed the wind.
"Water," the woman whispered. A mop bucket half full of rain sulked in a corner. Not now, Gavin told himself and his tongue.
"Plan," Madison said.
"Use the box to blind the lane; far fence to the cul-de-sac; then back lots. If road crosses, we go through, not with."
"You're not wrong," Theo said softly from nowhere. "You're tired. Tired loses."
Gavin let the saber's flat rest against metal so it wouldn't ring with his hands. "On my mark," he said, wrapping fingers in the chain on the maintenance gate. The lock sat fat and dumb. He tested the gap; metal declined.
"Forget the lock," the woman said. "Chain's on a bent picket."
He found the gardener's cheat, eased the chain off with a slow scrape, caught it so it wouldn't sing. The gate sighed a hand's width.
"Go," he said, touching Madison's arm.
Madison set to pivot and froze. "I can't see the ground. If there's a step, I'll—"
"I've got you," Gavin said, and meant it. He slid through first, heel down, then made a stair with his thigh. "Step."
Weight bruised, passed. The woman ghosted through. The crouched man hesitated long enough to whisper "Thank you," then slipped after.
They eased the gate back until the chain kissed metal. The hum hid the rest.
Beyond, the cul-de-sac held true cold. Asphalt, hedge, a wall, then the idea of a neighbor's yard where nobody laughed. No path of light. No offer. Only breath and a small animal refusing men.
"Right now," Gavin said. "We—"
Theo spoke from far too near the hedge for the map in Gavin's head. "Left was clever," pleasant as a bartender. No flashlight; a lighter flared, made a face—eyes, bone, calm—and went out by its own choice.
"Don't run," Theo added, kind as a coach. "You'll fall."
Gavin lifted the saber crosswise. Madison's shoulder touched his. The woman's hand found his sleeve. The crouched man sat without being told and set his head to the wall like a pupil who knew the rule.
"Down," Gavin said again, and this time they didn't just drop. They settled, waiting for the night to declare which way it wanted to bite.