"Help! We're trapped!" someone screamed into the thin wood of the door.
Something knocked back—hard, wet. A snarl scraped under paint.
"Stay down!" a man hissed from the darkness. "Don't make a sound. They'll smell it."
"He's on the latch!" a woman answered. "It's got claws."
I was curled on a threadbare mattress in the corner like a background prop and pretending to sleep.
"You're pretending too well," a boy muttered beside me. His voice shook.
"Shut up," the woman snapped. Her hand trembled on the door. "If it hears us—"
"It already heard." A new voice, small and flat. "It's smart."
"Patricio?" the woman asked without looking. "You awake?"
I opened my eyes slow. "Barely."
"Then help us," the boy said. "Do something."
I didn't answer. I should have averted my eyes and stayed invisible. Survivors in Harbor City survive by not being noticed. But the thing at the door sent a smell under the wood, a hunger with claws, and pretending wasn't going to stop an entrance.
The latch scraped again. Teeth tapped the door like a patient knocking.
"Please," the woman whispered. "If we die in here—My sister—" She cut the sentence off with a sound like a sob.
"Throw something," I whispered back. "A bottle. Anything."
Someone passed me a can. The boy's hand was wet with sweat.
"Where did you learn to be calm?" the woman asked.
"Situation demands improvisation," I said. I
