The disposal yards smelled like wet steel and old protein.
Caleb had worked these yards for six years before Iris pulled him into the Seventh Division. He knew every gate, every crane track, every stretch of cracked concrete where the rain collected and never drained. He knew the night shift was thinner than the day shift. He knew Vance ran the night shift himself on Wednesdays.
It was Wednesday.
He came in through the workers' gate without a credential. The night guard recognized him and waved him through without asking. The guard had been a friend of Caleb's father, though the guard didn't know that and Caleb hadn't known it until two days ago.
Vance was in the supervisor's shed.
The shed was a concrete box with a corrugated tin roof and a single bare bulb hanging from a wire. Vance was at his desk with a thermos of something hot and a logbook open in front of him. He looked up when Caleb stepped in.
He didn't look surprised.
