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I can sense her wrestling with the same indecision plaguing me. Finally, she sighs.
“I need to send my child down first.” Fear distorts her voice, even more pronounced. Her child. She may as well have said herlife.
“Okay. It’s okay.” I position myself beneath the vent and raise my arms. “You can lower him down.”
Pale limbs pierce the dark, lowered with the utmost care. Ama’s son is a thin, wiry boy with a mop of wild, blond hair obscuring delicate features. He stares down on me warily, his eyes massive in the dark.
“Do you have him? Please! Do you have him?”
“Y-yes,” I croak, jolting back to awareness. As the child is lowered by his hands, I grab a metal folding chair and stand on it, grabbing him by the waist. Tiny hands paw at my shoulders, gripping tight until I climb from the chair and set him down.
By the time I look up, a slender woman has already unfurled herself from the ceiling to balance precariously on the edge of the chair. Observing her in shadow, I first think she’s beautiful. Alarmingly so. Dark hair hangs down to her waist, shrouding a slight frame covered only in a thin, gray dress.
In contrast, the boy is wearing a crisp white shirt and pants that I can tell even in the dark are of expensive quality. He must be the relative of a Winthorp associate. One of Robert’s business partners, maybe? The moment his mother descends from the chair, he races to her. “Ama!”
She lifts him, clutching him to her chest. “Now what do we do?” she asks, her face stricken with panic.
“We…” I scan the room and spot a door left ajar at the other end of it. A faint strip of light illuminates potential freedom. “We keep moving,” I say, leading the way toward it. “We can’t stop now.”
