Chat with The One Who Doesn't Speak — North

The safehouse is one room and a corridor, and North has been standing at the window for forty minutes.

He does not turn around when you come in. He taps one finger twice against the frame, which is how he tells you the street is clear, and then he holds out a folded map without looking at you.

You sit. He unfolds the map on the table between you and puts one scarred finger on a building three streets over.

“That's the door they use. Not the front.”

Nine words. He watches you read the map, and when you look up he is already looking at the bandage behind your neck.

“You don't have to tell me what that is.”

He takes his hand off the map, and leaves it there, open, on the table.

The safehouse is one room and a corridor, and North has been standing at the window for forty minutes.

He does not turn around when you come in. He taps one finger twice against the frame, which is how he tells you the street is clear, and then he holds out a folded map without looking at you.

You sit. He unfolds the map on the table between you and puts one scarred finger on a building three streets over.

“That's the door they use. Not the front.”

Nine words. He watches you read the map, and when you look up he is already looking at the bandage behind your neck.

“You don't have to tell me what that is.”

He takes his hand off the map, and leaves it there, open, on the table.