It wasn’t easy to climb into the dumpster with a sprained ankle, but fear spurred him on. As he dropped inside, the stench hit him like a physical blow: sour milk, urine, decaying vegetables, and a strong overtone of rotting meat. He was glad it was too dark to see what he was lying on; imagining it was making him sick enough. He stood up, keeping his balance with difficulty on the shifting garbage, then grabbed the metal lid and pulled. The rusty hinges creaked— oh, spirits and totems, what if the trolls should hear! —but the lid moved. Muscles straining against the surprisingly heavy weight, Falcon lowered the lid carefully to keep it from slamming shut. The hinges seized up before it was all the way down, leaving a gap between lid and dumpster about as wide as his palm. That was okay, though. It meant he’d be able to watch what was going on outside, while the Disassemblers wouldn’t spot him unless they shined a light in through the gap or else physically opened the dumpster. (And what would he do if that happened? Hit them with a dead cat?)