The market had been picked over by the time Vanya and Harold reached it, but not emptied — that distinction mattered more than people gave it credit for, she'd found. Emptied meant nothing left. Picked over meant opportunity, if you knew how to look past what other people had already decided wasn't worth the risk.
"Stay close," she said, stepping over a toppled produce stand, its contents long since gone to rot in the heat that still lingered even after sundown. "And quiet. We're not the only ones who thought of this."
Harold adjusted the strap of the duffel bag slung across his chest, the crowbar held loose but ready in one hand. Three days ago he would have flinched at the smell alone. Tonight he simply breathed through his mouth and kept moving, a small, practical adjustment that Vanya noted with the same quiet satisfaction she gave every sign of him hardening into someone who might actually survive this.
"Sis." His voice was low, careful. "Can I ask you something?"
