A hand tapped my shoulder. I spun, fists half-raised.
Jenn stood behind me, having slipped out of a narrow bathroom door I hadn't even noticed in the shadowed wall. She was wearing Sherry's clothes, a short pleated skirt and crisp white shirt that fit her differently, tighter across the chest and shorter on the thighs.
She smoothed the fabric self-consciously and gave a small, hopeful smile, the kind of smile someone wears when they've just tried on something new and want to know how it lands.
"How do I look?" she asked, doing a quick half-twirl that flared the skirt.
Then her gaze drifted past me to the window. To the street below. To the growing mob of armed men pointing, shouting, and pouring back into the building like angry hornets.
The smile died on her face.
"What are you doing in my room?" Her voice dropped to something small and frightened.
"Jenn." I kept my tone steady, low. "Those men down there want us dead."
