My first instinct is that the food delivery system in my wall is broken, but when I step outside my room into the hallway, I can hear Doc shouting, even though his office door is shut.

“I don’t care if you think the people in the Ward don’t count, Fridrick!” Doc bellows. “They still deserve food!”

I slip back into my room and snatch the sonnet from my desk, but my heart’s sinking. This is more trouble for Elder—and for the ship. I think about comming him and warning him that no food’s been delivered to the Hospital, but his dead friend takes priority over lunch.

Instead, I make my way down to the grav tube to search for the stairs. There are two tubes, one near the City, one on this side of the level. My stomach twists at the idea of going into the City by myself, but considering how close this tube is to the Recorder Hall, I think I’ve got a better chance of finding the hidden stairs near it than the other one. If there even are stairs, I can’t help but think. I just hope I’ve got this clue figured out correctly.

The Hospital lobby is crowded as usual, but I keep my head down and my hood up as I weave through the people complaining about med patches. A few people look really sick—one woman is dangerously thin, with sunken eyes and hollowed cheeks. Another man keeps throwing up, holding a pail in his lap.

I take a deep breath of the recycled air as soon as I leave the Hospital—then immediately put my head back down. A group of people, among them the crowd that was arguing for Elder’s removal yesterday, are gathered down the path near the pond.

“And, once again, no food deliveries for lunch,” a voice echoes from the crowd. I glance up; Bartie’s in the center of the group, standing on the bench.

I resist the urge to run over and knock him into the pond. Bartie had always seemed nice and even quiet before this week, but as the ship spins more and more out of control, all I can see is him standing in the center of the storm.

As I hurry along the path, I keep my head down. Which is, perhaps, why I bump right into a couple heading toward Bartie and the group at the pond.

“Sorry!” the woman says pleasantly.

“Where are you going?” the man asks. I hesitate—just a moment. I recognize that voice.

Luthor.

I should have started running, but my brief pause has given Luthor time to touch my shoulder. I peek at him under my hood, careful to keep my face down. The bruises Victria and I inflicted on him are a nasty greenish purple. His left eye is still swollen; a dark red scab covers his split lip.