Slowly, I come to in some dingy little hideout area that looks essentially like a hole in the wall. It’s barely big enough for three people of my size. In one cramped little corner, another person sits, a book propped open on their lap. No cover to it.

My head throbs as I sit up. I place my palm to my temple, feeling the cotton gauze taped there. I briefly recall the incident from last night — the shootout. I clear my throat.

“Who are you?” I ask quietly.