Zoe POV

The light is right there.

Twenty feet. Ten. The end of the corridor opening into something that isn't stone, isn't gray, isn't the particular quality of air that has been breathed and rebreathed in a closed space for too long. I can smell it before I reach it—earth, pine, something damp and alive—and Iris runs toward it the way you run toward something you've been told might not exist.

I know what reaching open ground means. Out here, in a space with no walls ...