Page 68 of Drowning in Darkness

She lifts her sleeve-covered hand and wiggles her fingers at it. “Hello, tiny camera. I hope you’re enjoying the show.”

“It doesn’t have feelings.”

“That’s what they all say before the robot uprising. Didn’t you watch Terminator or The Matrix?”

I continue down the steps and onto the path, keeping my pace slower than usual. She doesn’t complain, but I’ve noticed the way her breathing changes when she moves too fast, the smallest tightening around her mouth when her ribs object. She’s trying to hide the pain, which is another pointless battle she will not win.

“There are four cameras on the main lodge, two on the vehicle bay, one inside the storage room, and another at the generator shed.”

“Inside the storage room?” she asks. “What if I want to steal canned peaches in private?”

“Then I’ll try to respect your dignity.”

“How noble of you.”

“There are blind spots inside the house, in the bedrooms and bathroom,” I add, because she needs to know that. “I don’t monitor private spaces.”

She glances across at me, and some of the humor slips from her face before she replaces it with something brighter. “I should hope not. I perform my best shower concerts in private.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“Wise. They’re powerful enough to alter weather patterns. I would need to charge you premium price for a performance.”

Her shoulders lift, hidden beneath my hoodie, and her attention moves from me to the nearest tree line. What is that about?

“This entire section is covered by motion sensors.” I gesture toward the posts half-hidden among the brush. “Anything larger than a fox triggers an alert inside the house and on my phone.”

“Poor foxes. Excluded from the surveillance state.”

“The foxes are afforded privacy.”

“Kind of you.”

“The sensors run along the inner perimeter. There is another line farther out, past the trees. If someone breaches that, I’ll know before they get close to the lodge.”

Snow gathers on her hood. She tilts her head back to study the ridge, but her expression no longer carries the wonder from a few minutes ago. “How far does it go?”

“The property?”

“The boundary.”

The cadence of her words has changed. She’s no longer the teasing captive, but someone assessing the situation and measuring it against something in history.

“Depends which one you mean.”

She looks at me then.

“The natural boundary runs along the ridge and down to the ravine on the eastern side. The security boundary sits inside that, marked by sensors and cameras. The safe boundary is closer.”

“Safe boundary,” she repeats.

“It’s where you can walk without me.”

Her lips part, but whatever she planned to say dies.

“It isn’t about controlling where you go,” I add, because something about her silence sits wrong. “It’s about making sure that if something trips the outer line, you aren’t already too far from cover.”

“Right.”