“Under the bridge is tight.”
Bear glanced at the others.
“Then breathe smaller.”
For the first time, a tiny crack of disbelief crossed Mason’s face.
It almost looked like the beginning of a smile.
Then it vanished.
Lily took Mason’s hand and led them beneath the overpass.
The path dropped through weeds stiff with frost, past broken concrete, rusted shopping carts, and old graffiti half-buried beneath snow. The highway above rumbled faintly whenever a distant truck passed, but down below, the world became colder and quieter.
The bridge supports rose like gray pillars, their bases crowded with trash, torn tarps, and pieces of cardboard flattened into sleeping mats.
Lily moved with the familiarity of someone navigating a bedroom.
Mason followed close behind her, shining the weak flashlight along the ground so none of the bikers stepped on broken glass.
They slipped between two concrete walls and ducked behind a stack of old pallets. There, hidden from the road by shadow and hanging plastic sheeting, was their shelter.
A thin blanket.
Two cans of food.
A cracked backpack.
A flashlight.
A notebook.
A small stuffed dinosaur with one missing eye.
And a plastic bag tied around something square.
Bear stopped at the entrance.
The other bikers stopped behind him.
Lily suddenly looked ashamed.
“It’s not much,” she muttered.
Bear looked at the blanket, the frozen ground, Mason’s shaking hands, and the careful way Lily had arranged the little they owned.
“No,” Bear said quietly. “It’s yours.”
That answer struck Lily harder than pity would have.
She looked away fast.
Bishop crouched near the wall and pointed to the plastic bag.