Well, they were moving.
A part of her remained hopeful. A futile hope, maybe, but Kizi shook her head, dispersed that pang of fatalistic logic. She would take every opportunity for a spot of hope whenever it arrived. And as they left this room, maybe the environment would change from discarded artwork and crumbling architecture into something more mundane. The revelation of it all being a cruel prank, or the promising sight of a helicopter in the distance.
But that would have to wait.
Kizi smiled, a friendly smile, a smile of trust and loyalty, conveying understanding and agreement, rather than a smile of satisfaction. She bent down, to gather up her things. Looked at the shotgun, surprised she hadn't forgotten it. She hoped someone else would carry it.
She picked it up, with a grunt. It was heavy.
((Kiziah Saraki continued in So, so tired...