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What if she was here?

What if we missed her by hours?

Ashby opens the door before I can spiral further. Warmth hits immediately alongside the smell of soup and industrial cleaner. A tired looking woman behind the front desk glances up as we enter and instantly clocks the men behind me.

Three large bikers walking into a shelter probably reads as either extremely threatening or aggressively nonprofit.

The woman’s gaze settles on me. “Can I help you?”

I step forward quickly. “I’m looking for my sister.”

My voice catches slightly around the crucial word.

The woman notices, and her expression softens immediately.

“We were told she may have stayed here recently,” I continue, pulling out the printed photo Ashby prepared earlier. “Her name’s Maggie Sterling. But she might have been going by Mae.”

The woman studies the photograph for a long moment.

Then she says, “I can't discuss whether someone has used our services.”

My stomach drops.

“But what I can tell you is that if your sister is seeking support, there are resources available to help keep her safe.” She nods at me. “If your sister is an adult, any decisions about contact would have to come from her.”

There’s a tone to her voice that makes me exclaim, “You mean you’ve seen her, in person?”

“I’m sorry. I can’t disclose client information without their authorization,” she says firmly.

“Nobody’s asking for private records,” Torin says calmly. “We just need to know if she made it through here alive.”

The woman studies him briefly.

Then all of us.

I realize suddenly how strange we must look standing here together. Me clutching Maggie’s photo hard enough to bend the edges, Briggs shifting closer when my hands start shaking. Ashby steps slightly into my line of sight like he’s preparing to take over the conversation if I stop functioning. Torin stays near the door watching the room without making it obvious.

After a moment, she reaches for a brochure rack.

“These organizations work closely with us,” she says. “If you're trying to locate resources someone may have accessed, they're worth contacting.”

I close my eyes briefly, because hearing somebody else confirm it makes everything feel horribly real all over again.

Ashby takes over gently after that, asking practical questions in the calm organized tone he uses when situations require structure.

The woman eventually scribbles down two addresses, reluctantly. “She might’ve tried these places next,” she says, handing the note to Ashby.

Hope sparks painfully inside me again.

Enough to keep me moving.

The afternoon turns into a round of shelter after shelter. Soup kitchens. Community outreach centers. Tiny coffee shops where volunteers vaguely remember a tired woman matching Maggie’s description sitting alone near the windows.

Somebody remembers her from yesterday morning, last week, an hour after sunrise, but never long enough for us to catch up.

By four o’clock my nerves feel sandpaper raw.

Rain thickens again while we walk through downtown Seattle beneath umbrellas bought hastily from a drugstore because none of us packed appropriately for urban monsoon conditions.