Knife-Edge and his "boys" were sprawled around the restaurant, eating some rations they'd brought with them. Falcon’s belly growled at the smell—How long since I’ve eaten? he wondered. Twenty-four hours?—but his pride wouldn’t let him ask for handouts. Nightwalker lay propped up against a wall. He was starting to fade. The other runners seemed to assume it was just exhaustion, but Falcon knew better.