Page 71 of Whisper

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The lie comes easily. Truth is, the concrete wall feels more comfortable than it should, and keeping my eyes open requires too much effort. Blood loss has its own timeline, its own inevitable progression.

But I don’t tell her that.

The door closes behind her with a soft click, and silence fills the maintenance shed. I press the shoulder bandage, checking for fresh bleeding. The fabric comes away red, but not soaked. Maybe I have more time than I thought.

Maybe.

I lean my head back against the concrete, close my eyes for just a moment. Just to rest. Not to sleep. Not to lose consciousness.

Just to rest.

The last thing I hear is the distant sound of traffic, the urban rhythm of a city that doesn’t know Phoenix is hunting two people through its streets.

The last thing I think is that Eliza better be right about humanity.

Because if she’s wrong, we’re both dead.

The darkness creeps in from the edges, soft and warm and inevitable.

And I let it come.

SIXTEEN

Eliza

TAKING CHARGE

The heavy doorclicks shut behind me, sealing Cooper inside the concrete box with his wounds and his stubborn pride. My hands shake as I grip the crumpled list, the ink already smearing from the dampness on my palms. Fifty dollars and a prayer that humanity hasn’t failed me yet.

The maintenance shed sits behind me like a tomb. Cooper’s breathing was too shallow when I left, his skin too pale. Blood soaked through those makeshift bandages faster than either of us wants to admit.

If this doesn’t work, he dies.

If I don’t move fast enough, he dies.

If the person I’m about to trust decides fifty dollars isn’t worth the effort, he dies.

The weight of his life presses against my chest like a physical thing as I navigate the narrow path between abandoned buildings. Broken glass crunches under my shoes. The air smells of exhaust fumes and something sour, which could be garbage or something worse. This isn’t the sanitized academic world where problems have solutions and research has answers.

This is real. Raw. Desperate.

And Cooper’s life depends on me not screwing it up.

The homeless camp spreads across a small lot wedged between two condemned buildings. Tarps stretched between shopping carts create makeshift shelters. A barrel fire burns in the center, sending acrid smoke into the gray morning sky. The smell hits me first—unwashed bodies, burning plastic, the sharp tang of urine mixed with something chemical I can’t identify.

People cluster around the fire, hands extended toward the flames. Their clothes are layered, patched, and held together with safety pins and determination. Faces weathered by exposure and choices that led them here.

My stomach clenches with guilt. These people are surviving with nothing, and I’m about to ask one of them to risk what little they have on a stranger’s promise.

But Cooper’s blood is soaking through fabric bandages, and pride won’t keep him alive.

I approach the group slowly, hands visible, trying to project calm confidence I don’t feel. Academic conferences never prepared me for this kind of negotiation.

“Excuse me,” I say, my voice carrying farther than intended in the morning quiet. “I need help. Someone’s been hurt, and I can pay for medical supplies.”

The conversations stop. Six pairs of eyes turn toward me, assessing the threat level I possess and calculating whether they carry an advantage over me. I’m clean, well-dressed, despite yesterday’s chaos. It’s obvious I don’t belong here.