As we head down the stairs back into the City streets, Elder pushes his wi-com and starts issuing orders, first for food delivery, then for medication. He’s so intent that he doesn’t notice the angry man who spots us as we descend.

“Where is she?” the man demands. The man leans forward so close that Elder backs away until he bumps into the handrail of the stairs.

“Who?” Elder asks.

“Lil. You gonna make her work? ’Cause it ain’t fair I’m working if she’s not!”

“Stevy, she’s sick. She needs some time. I’ve commed Doc—”

“She ain’t sick! Just lazy!” the man roars.

Elder puts up both his hands. “Stevy, I’m doing what I can. She can go back to work when she’s read—”

But he doesn’t have a chance to finish his sentence. His eyes widen with shock as Stevy rears back his fist and slams it straight into Elder’s jaw. Elder crashes to the ground. As soon as he manages to get back on his feet with the help of the handrail, Stevy slams his fist into his face again. Elder staggers back, but this time, he doesn’t fall.

I don’t realize I’ve screamed until the sound is out of my throat. Behind us, the group of spinners who were outside plying yarn have all noticed—they’re standing up; they’re rushing forward; they’re screaming too; they’re holding back; they’re whispering to each other behind their hands.

I spin around. “Someone do something!” I shout at them. I’ve witnessed enough high school fights to know that a girl like me would be stupid to rush between them—they’re both at least a foot taller than me, and one of Stevy’s punches could easily knock me out.

Three of the spinners—two men and a woman who’s not that much bigger than me—rush forward. But before they reach us, Stevy falls to the ground, clutching his head. The spinners stop short, staring.

Elder wipes his bleeding lip with the back of his hand.

“Make it stop,” Stevy says, his voice somewhere between a whine and a demand.

“It will automatically stop in about two minutes.” Elder speaks calmly, but there’s a cold impassivity to his voice that frightens me. “By that point, I think you should have learned punching me is a very bad idea.”

“What have you done?” I ask.

His lip won’t stop bleeding; his teeth are outlined in red. “Something I told myself I’d never do,” Elder mutters. “Come on.”

He doesn’t continue down the main street. Instead, he veers down an alley that heads toward the Greenhouses.

“It was something with his wi-com,” Elder says even though I’ve dropped the question. “Eldest did it to me once. It’s pretty effective at stopping someone.”