I sit in the back of a non-descript van, unheated and bare to the steel floor. The windows have been painted over, the only light coming through the front windshield. Sage huddles next to me, shivering, favoring his shoulder. The two guards from the restaurant watch over us, one with a machine gun in his lap, the other cradling a handgun.

Sage turns his head, lips next to my ear. "Who are these people?"

I don't answer. He already knows, doesn't he?

"Am ...