She rolled the wheelchair forward.
She put her good hand on the map.
"East of Ninth."
"Show me what's east of Ninth."
A young prospect named Daley leaned over the map.
His finger trembled.
"Warehouses, ma'am. Mostly condemned."
"The old paper plant."
"The rail yard."
"And..."
He stopped.
"And what?"
"Woodward Station, ma'am."
"The old underground terminal. It was sealed off years ago."
Maggie went very still.
"The subway?"
"Yes, ma'am."
She closed her eyes.
She was back in the alcove.
Back in the dark at three in the morning.
A child sitting cross-legged in the snow beside her.
His thin sweater stiff with frost.
Talking to her about the houses he wanted to build.
He had told her about warm places he knew.
Grates.
Doorways.
A secret place nobody else used.
Deep.
Quiet.
Out of the wind.
She had been half dead, and she still listened.
A nurse listens to dying patients and frightened children with the same careful ear because what people say at the edge of the dark is sometimes the most important thing they ever say.
He told her it was underground.
He told her it was Woodward.
"Cyrus," she said, opening her eyes.
"Get Beau on the radio."
"I know where he is."
The descent into Woodward Station felt like entering a tomb.
Beau Whitlock went down the concrete stairs first.
His flashlight cut a hard white blade through the darkness.
His breath showed in tight white clouds.
Cyrus was at his shoulder.
Several other experienced members followed.
At the rear came two paramedics Maggie had requested be staged nearby.
The old tile was slick with seepage and frozen condensation.
Walls were covered in the indecipherable markings of generations of people who had broken into the abandoned station.
The air was cold.
Wet.
Still.
Beau moved his flashlight slowly.
A rusted turnstile.
The remains of a vendor kiosk.
Fallen ceiling tile.
He did not call Eli's name.
Maggie had been specific.
"Don't call him."
"He'll run."
"Move slowly."
"Let him hear you breathing."
"Let him understand you're men and you're not in a hurry."
"Let him understand you mean him no harm."
They moved slowly.
They searched behind kiosks.
The ticket booth.
Maintenance spaces.
Corners.
The cold climbed through the soles of Beau's boots.