Chapter 2

Security took me to a glass meeting room above the mapping floor.

Kate Roland was waiting there.

Outside, a hurricane was tearing apart the coast. Kate’s hair was dry. Her white coat was clean. She looked like she had arrived from another city, not another floor.

She placed a document in front of me.

CONFIDENTIALITY AND DATA REMEDIATION ACKNOWLEDGMENT.

“You want me to say the data was stolen,” I said. “Then delete it.”

“I want you to stop unverified information from getting people killed.”

“I saw people on the clinic roof.”

“You saw video.”

“I saw Lena Dela Cruz holding a sick child.”

Kate’s eyes did not change. “The map says no one is there.”

“The map is lying.”

“The map is certified.”

The form forbade me from sharing route information with residents, broadcasters, or non-city rescue groups.

Too specific.

They already knew what I might do.

“What rescue unit is going to Bayhaven?” I asked.

“Bayhaven’s evacuation is complete.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

“Resources go where verified need sends them.”

“Sofia Dela Cruz is burning with fever.”

Kate leaned in. “And if you tell terrified people to walk into floodwater, their deaths will belong to you.”

That was the trap.

Do nothing, and Lena lost her daughter.

Act without proof, and they could make every death mine.

Kate slid a pen toward me. “Sign. Delete your copies. We can discuss your job after the storm.”

I drew one line through the signature box.

“I won’t certify a lie.”

At that exact moment, the power failed.

The room went black.

Emergency lights came on red and low. Kate was already on her phone in the hall when I slipped out.

My phone showed a new voicemail.

“Ms. Ellis.” A man spoke through wind and static. “I’m Alvaro Mendez. I run Bayhaven community radio. Inez says you saw us.”

Behind him, people shouted street names.

“We don’t need promises,” Alvaro said. “We need turns. Distances. A way out.”

I opened my saved map on a dark workstation.

The official escape routes followed Harbor Road. They were already underwater.

But an old port service lane ran behind the warehouses. It climbed toward the inland freight embankment.

The city map hid it.

“Can people report what they see at each intersection?” I asked Alvaro. “Depth. Current. Any debris. If they guess, they say it’s a guess.”

“We can do that.”

“Don’t call it safe. Call it possible.”

Five seconds later, I was live on Bayhaven radio.

“Stay off Harbor Road,” I said. “From the clinic, go north toward the cold-storage building. Do not use Mercer underpass.”

“Gate confirmed,” a woman said. “Water below the knee.”

“Loading yard clear by the wall,” another voice answered.

“At the split, take the left lane,” I said. “The right side drops into a drainage cut.”

My supervisor came toward me. “Give me the phone.”

I stepped back.

“Rail bridge?” Alvaro asked.

Silence filled the radio.

I pictured Lena walking with Sofia through a route I had chosen.

Then a breathless man answered. “Bridge is above water. We can see the inland barrier.”

For one second, I could breathe.

Then every phone in the building screamed.

The city alert cut over Alvaro’s broadcast.

BAYHAVEN HAS BEEN DESIGNATED A SEALED CONTAMINATION ZONE. NO ENTRY OR EXIT IS PERMITTED.

Anyone attempting to leave would be arrested.