He stepped closer, eyes running along the veins under my skin, the backs of my hands, the tendons. After a second, his gloved hand came up, fingers catching my chin and turning my head toward him.

“Look at me,” he said. “Schauen Sie mich an.”

I did. His eyes were dark, ringed with tiredness, but sharp. He studied my pupils, the whites, the way I tracked his face.

Then he let go and stepped back.

“Nichts Auffälliges,” he said to the woman. Nothing obvious. “If he’s carrying something, it’s not on the surface.”

“Very good,” she murmured, dry. Then: “Thank you.”

She adjusted her grip on the carbine. The barrel dropped a few degrees. Not much. Just enough to let my lungs work again.

“What do you want from Rustfield, Alexander Colt from Berlin?” she asked. The name settled over the place like it had always been there.

“Somewhere to sleep,” I said. I heard the strain in my own voice. “Under a roof. A chance to rest. Maybe… get my bearings. I don’t know this area. I’ve just been walking.”