Level 4, Between Shifts

The needle had been sitting under the red line since the far side of town, and Maren knew the car would not make a fourth trip. She rolled it into a slot on Level 4 of the garage on Ninth, killed the engine, and let the quiet fold in over her. Somewhere below, a gate arm clattered. Overhead, a sodium lamp buzzed and flickered like something deciding whether to stay alive.

Four hours until the night shift. Not enough time to go home, too much time to sit still. She had learned to sleep in this seat the way other people learn a language: reclined two clicks, coat over the shoulder, keys in the fist.

In her coat pocket, a heavy brass key pressed cold against her hip — a key to a house she had not stepped into in over twenty years. She had carried it through three cities and two names, and it had never once opened anything.