Deep night.
Footsteps. Very quiet. Careful.
Del opens his eye.
Tam. Moving through shadows. Crouched low.
Stops next to Del. Breathing fast. Nervous.
"I'm here," Tam whispers. "What do you need?"
Del looks at him. At the fear in his face. At the determination underneath it.
"The warehouse. Where Vence keeps the containers."
"I told you. It's guarded."
"Is it guarded right now?"
Tam hesitates. "Two guards. One at the door. One inside maybe."
"The one outside. Does he patrol?"
"Walks around the building every hour or so. Checks the back."
"When's the next patrol?"
Tam looks toward the warehouse. Distant. "Maybe twenty minutes."
"Good. When he patrols, you go in the back. Through the gap in the wall."
Tam's hands are shaking. Del can see it even in the dark.
"What do I do inside?" Tam asks.
Del tells him.
Takes maybe two minutes. Tam listens. Doesn't interrupt. His face getting paler.
When Del finishes, Tam is silent for a long moment.
Then: "If I get caught, they'll kill me."
"Yes."
"You're asking me to risk my life."
"Yes."
Silence.
Tam stares at Del. At his broken face. His swollen eye. His bleeding hands.
"You're using me," Tam says quietly.
"Yes."
Tam's hands clench. Unclench.
"Why should I do this?"
Del could say: because you owe me. Because I saved you.
Doesn't.
Just: "If the performance fails tomorrow, Vence kills me. Probably kills you too. You helped me lie about how many containers there were. He won't forget."
Tam's jaw tightens. "So we're both dead unless this works."
"Yes."
Tam looks toward the warehouse. Back to Del.
"Fine," he says. "But not because I owe you."
He stands. Walks toward the warehouse. Disappears into shadows.
Del sits there. Alone.
His hand finds the rock. Traces the eighth mark. Doesn't pull it out. Doesn't look at it.
Just: feels the groove. The crack in the stone.
Waits.
---
Time passes slowly. Maybe thirty minutes. Maybe more.
Del can't see the warehouse from here. Can't see if Tam made it inside. Can't see if he's been caught.
Just: waits.
Then: footsteps. Running. Fast.
Tam appears from the shadows. Moving quick. Breathing hard.
Reaches Del. Collapses next to him. Gasping.
"Did you do it?" Del asks.
Tam nods. Can't speak yet. Just: breathing.
"Anyone see you?"
Tam shakes his head.
"You're sure?"
"The guard was asleep. Inside. Didn't wake up."
Del feels relief. Brief. "All twelve?"
"Yeah. Marked the six like you said. Made small scratches on the bottom. You'll feel them if you check."
He pauses.
"The other six I..." Tam trails off.
"You what?"
"Loosened the seals. Just slightly. And rubbed dirt on the outside. Made them look... worse."
Tam looks at his hands. Like there's something on them he can't wash off.
"Those containers," he says quietly. "The ones I made look bad. They're the contaminated ones?"
Del doesn't answer.
"People are going to drink from those eventually," Tam continues. "In your service. When you use them."
"Maybe."
"They'll get sick."
Del doesn't answer.
"Some might die."
Silence.
Tam's hands are shaking badly now. He stares at them.
"I just did that," he says. Voice barely there. "Marked containers that might kill people. Me."
Del looks at him. "You did what you had to."
"Does that make it better?"
"No."
Tam is quiet for a long time.
Then: "Do you ever feel it? What you're doing to people?"
Del's hand goes to the rock in his pocket. Feels the eighth mark. Doesn't pull it out.
Doesn't answer.
Tam looks at him. "Do you?"
Del doesn't meet his eyes. Just: looks away.
Tam stares at him. Then stands. Walks away without another word.
Del is alone again.
His hand still on the rock. Still feeling the eighth groove. The crack worn into the stone from weeks of carrying.
Doesn't think about what it represents. Doesn't let himself.
Just: feels the weight.
Closes his eye.
Doesn't sleep.
Just: lies there. In the dark. Breathing carefully.
Tomorrow he performs.
Tomorrow fifty people watch.
Tomorrow he uses all of them and some of them will die because of it.
Tomorrow.
Dawn comes slow and cold.
Del hasn't slept. Can't. His body won't let him anymore.
Just: lies there. In the dark. Breathing shallow. Each breath a negotiation with the broken rib.
His hands won't stop shaking. Haven't stopped since yesterday. The numb fingers twitch without input. Muscle memory or nerve damage. Doesn't matter which.
He practices one last time. Stones moving from hand to hand. Right to left. Left to right. The transfers are smoother now. Automatic.
His thumb finds the rock in his pocket. Eight marks. Worn grooves. He doesn't pull it out. Just: traces them. One through eight. His thumb stops on the eighth.
Stays there.
Doesn't think about what it represents.
Doesn't let himself.
Light shifts. Gray becoming less gray. Dawn.
Footsteps.
Tam.
"It's time," he says. Quiet. Like speaking in a tomb.
Del tries to stand. Can't. His knee won't hold.
Tam helps. Gets Del's arm over his shoulder. Lifts.
They move together. Slow. Del hopping on his left leg. Right knee bent. Useless.
Every hop jars the broken rib. Pain white and sharp. But he keeps moving.
Has to perform.
---
The junction is already full.
A theater with its audience participants.
Fifty people. Maybe more. Hard to count. They're pressed together. Shoulder to shoulder. Bodies touching. Breath fogging in the cold morning air. The smell hits Del before anything else—sweat, rot, sickness, desperation. Fifty people who haven't had clean water in weeks. Months. Years.
The sound is a wall. Not individual voices. Just: mass noise. Talking. Arguing. Speculating. Fear and hope grinding against each other.
Del and Tam push through the edge. Bodies don't want to part. Too packed. Someone's elbow hits Del's ribs.
He gasps. Can't help it. Vision whites out.
People see them. Fall silent. The silence spreads like rot. Bodies shifting. Creating space.
Fifty people watching.
Del can feel their eyes. Cataloging his condition. The swollen face. The ruined knee. The way he leans on Tam like he's already dead.
Someone laughs. Bitter. Short.
"That's the purifier? Can't even stand."
Murmurs of agreement. Bodies shifting. Doubt spreading through the crowd like disease.
Tam helps Del to the center. Open space. Cleared. Waiting.
Sets him down. Del sits on a flat piece of rubble. His knee screaming. The broken rib grinding with each breath. Vision blurring at the edges.
He focuses. Breathes. Shallow. Controlled.
The crowd presses closer. A wall of bodies. The smell stronger now. Unwashed skin. Infected wounds. Breath gone sour from contaminated water.
Someone coughs. Wet. Tubercular.
The sun breaks the horizon. Light harsh. Orange. It hits Del's face. Makes him squint. His one working eye waters immediately.
Footsteps. Heavy. Deliberate.
The crowd parts. Fast. Bodies scrambling to get out of the way.
Vence.
Three guards with him. All armed. Clubs visible. Watching the crowd like they're watching animals.
And behind them: more guards. Six total. Carrying something.
The containers.
Twelve of them. Sealed. The guards set them down in the center with deliberate care.
Not in a line.
In a circle.
Del's stomach drops.
Circle has no middle. No edges. Every position equal.
All his planning—middle versus edges, positioning psychology, which spots get picked—useless.