Slowly, the other gangs stopped asking for Ron to repair things for them. They even stopped bringing in small repair jobs for him.

“They’re runnin’ low on food an’ money,” Al said. “Got nothin’ left t’ trade with.”

Ron saw all the work he had done for the Gramercy kids become meaningless. The lights, the stoves, the electrical machinery he had fixed—all were useless now. Even the generator down in the basement, which warriors had died for, was now cold and silent, without fuel. It couldn’t snow inside the Dome, of course, but the winter cold seeped in, bringing at first discomfort, then pain, and finally sickness.

The bruises that Dino had put on Sylvia and Davey slowly faded away. But Davey stopped going out on the streets to play with the other boys his own age. He developed a hoarse, dry cough that got deeper and more racking every day. The child stayed close to Ron almost all the time, and even slept with him many nights, under as big a pile of blankets as they could find. Still, Davey coughed and Ron always awoke shivering.

There was no news about Dino. At the market area, there were plenty of stories about raids around the border of the Muslim turf. Sometimes it was white gangs hitting the Muslims, sometimes the Muslims raiding the whites. The fighting was bitter. Many were killed and wounded.

The shaky truce that Al had engineered among the white gangs was beginning to crumble. Kids who were cold and hungry were no longer willing to live in peace if they thought they could get the food or fuel they needed by force. There was no fighting in the Gramercy area though. Ron concluded that the other gangs respected Al too much for them to attack his gang.

Then the night exploded.

Ron was asleep when the first blast lifted him off his mattress. He bounced on the floor, completely awake and totally scared. More blasts! People shouting, cursing, screaming.

Ron’s mind began to work. It’s a raid!

Scrambling to his feet, he dashed out of the room and downstairs. A thin, oily-smelling smoke drifted up the stairwell. Guys were dashing all around down on the first floor. Ron stopped at the second floor landing. More warriors were bunched up in the doorway to the ammo room. Al was in there, shouting orders.

Ron heard glass break downstairs and then a sheet of flame whooshed up from the first floor. Screams of agony came up the stairs with the blistering heat and glaring white flames.

“Up on th’ roof!” Al shouted. “Quick!”

They all boiled upstairs, heading for the roof. Ron still heard shouts down below as warriors pounded past him on the stairs. There was shouting out on the street. Flames were licking up the stairs now, as Ron stood frozen watching them. He heard the shouts of excited, victory-crazed guys mixed with the shrieks of those who were burning to death.

Ron could feel the heat singering his face, curling the hair on his hands and arms. All at once he turned and ran upstairs. Not for the roof. For Sylvia’s room. He pushed her door open. The rest of the guys kept on swarming toward the roof.