When, Not If

Prologue

“Waylon.”

My name slurred in his mouth. Something heavy hit the counter. A bottle. The same kind he always drank.

I tried to sit up to look at him. My throat burned. Swallowing hurt. Breathing hurt worse. I shivered under the blankets I had taken from his room. I didn’t bother wiping the sweat from my hairline. It would be back in a minute, anyway.

Footsteps stumbled toward my room. I curled tighter, trying to be smaller. But sick was sick. And useless was useless.

The door creaked open.

“Get up.”

His words weren’t angry. This was worse. They sounded detached from his mouth.

“I…I can’t.” My voice was a whisper. “I’ll try tomorrow, Dad. I promise.”

“No,” he sighed. “We’re done with you. We’re not doing this coughing thing again. It’s obnoxious.”

He swayed in the doorway, shadow tilting over me. “You can fend for yourself.”

The canvas bag I took to work dropped on the floor with a dull thud.

“You can take that. Don’t take anything else.” A pause. “Door’s unlocked. Leave before sunrise.”

Before sunrise. Like he didn’t want neighbors to see.

My stomach cramped from something that wasn’t hunger. The door closed behind him. An empty bottle rolled across the hallway.

My hands shook when I tried to stand, but I stood anyway. I grabbed the bag, stuffed in the crust of bread I’d hidden yesterday and the one photo I had of myself, taken before the factory took my childhood out of my bones.

I steadied myself on the doorframe until the trembling eased.

My mother didn’t say goodbye.

Outside, the air was frosty. I pulled the canvas bag tighter across my chest and walked down empty streets. Ephe always slept before dawn, the only time it felt merciful. My feet dragged. My breath fogged weakly, each exhale shorter than the one before.

I didn’t know where I was going. Just away. Away from the house where love was something I’d never earned, and safety was something no one offered.

I made it as far as the alley behind the old bakery before my legs gave out. I pulled my knees in, resting my forehead on them. The night spun around me, blurry edges and flickering pain.

Maybe I’d fall asleep. Maybe I’d stay asleep. Maybe that would fix everything.

Footsteps approached.

They were too soft to be guards. A drunk would be louder. Too quick to be a kid.

I didn’t lift my head. It took too much energy.

A shadow knelt beside me. A gloved hand touched my forehead once.

“Too hot,” a woman said. Not scared or gentle. Just factual. “Name?”

I hesitated. The truth felt dangerous.

“…Waylon.”

“Waylon, what?” Her voice was brisk, but not unkind.

“Averye.”

A pause. “Alright, Averye. You’re lucky I found you first.”

I didn’t feel lucky.

She lifted me in one motion, stronger than she looked, and carried me into a side alley where a blue cloth hung above a door. She knocked twice. The door opened instantly.

Hands reached for me.

Not hurting hands. Not grabbing hands. Just… moving hands.

“He’s burning up.”

“Poor thing.”

“Get water.”

I didn’t understand most of what they said. Someone wiped my face with a damp cloth. Someone else wrapped a blanket around my shoulders. Another pressed a cup of water to my lips. I drank until the world steadied enough that voices stopped sounding underwater.

“You can’t keep him here,” a man said. “They’re sweeping Ephe tomorrow.”

“Then he goes tonight,” the woman—my rescuer—replied. “He won’t survive a sweep in this condition.”

They murmured agreement.

A map rustled. Someone mentioned a network.

Keepers.

I didn’t know what that meant.

The first woman carried me to a train that had no destination sign. I sat in a corner, wrapped in her jacket, watching the lights pulse across her face as the train moved.

“You scared?” she asked.

I nodded.

She didn’t promise it would be okay.

“You stay awake when I tell you. You sleep when I tell you to. And when someone asks who you belong to, you say: ‘I’m moving.’ Got it?”

I repeated it. “I’m moving.”

“Good.”

A man took me next—quiet, tall, with ink along his wrists that looked like old tally marks.

“You from Ephe?”

I nodded weakly. He smiled down at me. “Me too.”

He carried me through back alleys, then handed me a boy no older than sixteen who slowly led me through the abandoned tunnels beneath Tempus.

At each handoff, I expected kindness to run out.

It didn’t.

I could walk by myself. Mostly.

“We’re close,” the boy said. “She’s expecting you.”

“She?” My voice cracked.

He nodded. “A girl. Keeper. Good one.”

I didn’t trust that. People said “good” when they meant “useful.”

The last tunnel opened into the underside of a broken market stall. The boy tapped a rhythm on the wood—two slow knocks.

“Go on,” he said. “She’s right there.”

I crawled through the gap, disoriented by the sudden light.

And then—

Then she was there.

A girl with dark hair pulled back in a messy knot, a scarf around her neck, eyes too old for her age but not unkind.

She froze when she saw me.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

My throat tightened. “Waylon.”

She stepped closer, not hesitating, not flinching at the fever-sweat or the trembling or the fact that exhaustion outlined my face.

“I’m Lana.”

Just Lana. As if that explained everything.

She held out her hand, and I stared at it.

“It’s okay,” she whispered. “You can come with me.”

My fingers twitched.

Then moved.

Her hand was warm and steady. She squeezed once. And something in my chest unclenched.

“Come on,” she said. “You’re safe now.”

Because even at twelve years old, shivering and half broken, I knew when someone was lying.

She wasn’t.

So, I followed her.