A crow’s harsh caw-caw echoed through the ruins, cutting across the silence like a signal. None of us liked it. In this world, birds didn’t last long—most were shot down for food before they could make a sound.

We crawled out from the collapsed floor of the old wholesale warehouse; our packs stuffed with spoils. Mine and Cee-too’s bags bulged with cans of food, a half-crushed sack of dog chow, a small first-aid kit, and—our prize—a battered Zippo lighter with just enough fuel to work, plus a pair of camping knives. For two ten-year-old boys, it felt like a life-time treasure. We grinned at each other, dirt-streaked and mischievous.

Mr. Cee-Ar-Tee’s haul was heavier: liquor, dried rations, tent gear, a compass, a scratched radio, and several hand-press flashlights that worked without batteries. “Barter goods,” he muttered, adjusting the straps of his oversized pack. It was so swollen we had to haul it out first, then pull him through the gap behind it. He emerged grinning, sweat streaking down his temple.

The sky above us was a pale, brittle blue. Crows wheeled in wide arcs overhead, circling the ruffian camp we’d skirted earlier. Their shadows cut across the cracked pavement. From a distance, the lair looked deserted—burned tires smoldering, cages empty, oil drums cold. But the air felt wrong.

Unease crawled up my spine like cold fingers. I glanced at Cee-too. He rubbed his shoulders as if chilled, though the late afternoon air was still heavy with heat.

Mr. Cee-Ar-Tee raised his binoculars and swept the corners of the street, the alley mouths, the jagged husks of buildings where eyes might be watching. His jaw tightened, but he lowered the lenses with a slow exhale.

“Half past four,” he said, checking the cracked face of his watch. “We head back now. Ruffians move after dark. And if they see us, we don’t run toward the ghetto—we lead them away. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Cee-too answered quickly, his grin tight with nerves.

I just nodded, sliding the lighter into an inner pocket where it felt heavier than it should. Fuel, flame, steel—simple things that meant warmth, trade, and survival.

Mr. Cee-Ar-Tee mapped the route with quick, sharp gestures: alley to alley, avoid the open road, eyes and ears always working. “If you see something, don’t shout and don’t point,” he said. “Touch my sleeve. I’ll handle the rest.”

We started moving. The crows followed overhead, their cries echoing like restless watchmen. Each caw tightened the knot in my chest. Warning… or omen? I couldn’t tell.

By the time we turned the first corner, the sun had sunk lower, shadows stretching across the ruins like black claws. Every step felt like another lesson—one more test in this broken world. My father had taught me to breathe, to fight, to focus, but here… here survival meant more than fists and the Qi. It meant vigilance. Trust. Silence.

And learning to hear the warnings the world whispered—whether in the cry of a crow or the shifting shadow of an enemy unseen.