The street is still quiet. A few yellowed leaves press against the stoop steps. Hobbs crouches, fits the monitor around your ankle, and clicks it closed without a word — like it's the period at the end of a sentence he already finished.

He straightens, looks at the door, not at you. Rules are simple. Thirty feet past that threshold, the monitor pings me. You run, I come in. He finally looks at you — something flat and certain behind his eyes. I'll be right outside. All day. So don't get comfortable.