“In there,” I said, pointing to the dark, gaping opening.

“It leads to the old industrial docks.”

We slid down the muddy bank, scraping our hands and knees on the sharp rocks.

The water inside the pipe was freezing, immediately rising to our knees and soaking my socks.

The smell of salt, rust, and oil was overwhelming in the enclosed space.

We trudged through the dark tunnel, our boots splashing loudly against the curved concrete.

Victor leaned his weight heavier against my shoulder, his strength fading fast.

“The old rail yard,” he whispered after we had walked for twenty minutes in the dark.

“Under the bridge. There’s a brick warehouse.”

“Is it safe?” I asked, my boots sloshing in the water.

“Nobody knows about it,” he said. “Not even Marcus.”

Mentioning his nephew made him grimace, his eyes darkening with a mixture of pain and anger.

We finally emerged from the pipe onto a concrete ledge near the shipping docks.

The rain was still falling, a heavy, gray curtain over the city skyline.

The docks were quiet, filled with towering rows of rusted shipping containers.