The morning came too soon. I barely slept, haunted by fragmented dreams of Sarah, her son and Isla. When I woke, Alex was already up, leaning against the window and scanning the perimeter. His jaw was tense, and his eyes were hard, the weight of whatever thoughts he was wrestling with evident on his face.
"Breakfast is ready," he said without looking at me, his tone clipped.
I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and sat up, the stale smell of the room clinging to my clothes. "What time is it?"
"Doesn't matter," Alex replied, finally turning to face me. "Eat fast. We've got a lot to figure out."
I didn't press further. The tension in the air didn't leave much room for small talk. We headed back to George's makeshift dining area—a room that was far too extravagant for the crumbling building it was in. George was already there, seated at the head of the table with a smug grin on his face, eating what looked like actual eggs and bacon. A luxury.
