Site B smelled like flour and rust, exactly as promised.
The rats had been persuaded to relocate by Suri's sensor rig on its lowest frequency, a discovery she'd made by accident and documented with the quiet satisfaction of someone who preferred solutions to problems over complaints about them. The baker's daughter, whose name was Cass and who had the particular competence of someone raised to fix things rather than wait for them to be fixed, had strung three lines of working light across the ceiling the night before and left a crate of supplies near the door without being asked.
By midmorning, it looked like somewhere people worked.
By noon, it looked like somewhere people lived.
