This place was still a mystery in parts, but I was slowly piecing it together, with every person I spoke to, every sign I read, and every rumour I picked up. 
Just a little more time, and a few more details, and I'd have a map in my mind that made sense.
"Just go in, then out," I muttered to myself, barely loud enough to hear over the wind.
...
...
...
Two weeks.
It was now almost certainly the start of Fall.
The night air had a chill to it, the kind that clung to the skin and bled through clothes despite the layers I'd put on. 
The weather in the Walls was similar to that of the northern hemisphere. I could equate it to probably the Scottish Highlands or perhaps somewhere in Eastern Europe.
It was also quiet.
The kind of quiet you could feel as if the whole world had shrunk down to just the darkened clearing we'd stopped in. 
I stood a few paces back from the small group gathered, watching as the Military Police officers made their way into the clearing from the opposite side. The air smelled of damp earth, and a thin mist hung just above the ground, making the shadows seem to stretch and blend.
This was my first time at a deal like this. I'd been warned, rather pointedly, to stay quiet and observe. 
I had no plans to break that rule.
As they drew closer, one of the officers eyed me sharply, a hint of distrust flickering in his expression. 
His eyes went to the man standing a few paces ahead of me—my boss for the night. A wiry man with a confident air.
He responded to the officer's look with an easy, dismissive wave. "Relax, he's just here to help load up. Trustworthy hands, that's all."
The officer's gaze lingered on me, and I met it with the same blank expression I always wore. It was clear he wasn't entirely convinced, but after a pause, he gave a curt nod and refocused on my boss.
My goodness, don't be so uptight. 
It's not like I'm going to strangle you in your sleep...
Lighten up a bit, would you?
"Fine. Just keep him out of the way," the officer muttered. 
He and the other MPs began unloading crates from their wagon, dull metal and wood clattering together like a mediocre boy band trying the drums.
My boss stepped forward, motioning to the crates as if assessing their value by sight alone. 
"How many sets you bring this time?" he asked in a low, even voice.
"Five." The officer, a burly man with a no-nonsense look about him, jerked a thumb toward the crates. "That's all we could pull without raising questions. Our captain's been sniffing around lately—getting harder to do these runs."
My boss's expression tightened, though he kept his voice level. 
"So, we might need to hold off on the next one?"
The burly officer shrugged, exchanging a glance with his partner. "Could be. We're not gonna risk our necks for this if it's going to blow back on us." His tone held a hint of irritation, a sign he wasn't happy with the added scrutiny from his superiors.
I wonder why.
Two weeks is a load of time.
Lots can change in 336 hours.