Not surrender.
Exhaustion.
She grabbed two medical bags instead and pushed through the doorway.
That was probably the closest thing to a compromise I was getting from her.
Inside, the cold hit harder.
The room smelled like dust, old stone, and smoke from fires burned long ago. Wind slipped through the cracks in the walls, carrying the sharp bite of desert night with it.
Children huddled together near the far wall while their mothers wrapped blankets around them with shaking hands.
Miles shoved the heavy door closed behind us.
The old lock clicked into place.
Lucas stepped inside last. “Ten minutes.”
Olivia turned sharply. “That’s it?”
“That’s all we can risk.”
Her eyes flashed. “They need more than ten minutes.”
I set the boy down carefully near his mother before stepping closer.
“And if they find us here?”
Her jaw tightened.
She knew the answer.
Didn’t mean she accepted it.
The room went quiet around us for half a second.
Then I said, “Make the ten minutes count, Doctor.”
Something flickered across her face.
Anger.
Fear.
Determination.
Then she nodded once and dropped to her knees beside a coughing little girl.
No more arguing.
She just moved.
Fast.
Focused.
Like exhaustion didn’t exist.
