The briefing room smelled like tallow candles and old stone, and the particular staleness of a space that had been used for serious conversations so many times that the walls had absorbed it.
Evan spread the map across the table and weighted the corners with whatever was available — a water cup, a compass, the hilt of a knife someone had left behind.
He pointed to the three refugee processing points along the southern corridor and walked me through what the scouts had confirmed overnight.
Twelve individuals have been lagging in the past six days.
The way they moved through crowds.
The way they didn't react to things that should have startled them.
The flat quality of their attention, like something behind the eyes, had gone quiet.
"We didn't catch them on intake," Evan said. "We
