Newt got to his feet and walked around the fire to where Keisha and Dante huddled together.

“You okay?” he asked lamely.

Keisha nodded but didn’t say anything. Dante was quiet as a church mouse, a phrase that popped into Newt’s head unbidden, a thing he’d heard a hundred times in the past from someone he loved but couldn’t remember. But it was coming back. An image was starting to form. An image of a woman who looked a lot like him.

“I have to go,” he said.

This got Keisha’s attention. She looked up at him. “What? Go where?”

“I won’t be long,” was all he gave her in return.

He expected her to argue, but she seemed to understand. “We’ll be okay.”

Newt had already turned around, was already walking away.

Chapter Eight

He walked 10 minutes before he saw another soul, and the stroll calmed down his nerves. Seeing a lady with so much grief that she jumped into a hell-hot fire, swatted at burning logs and coals like flies on a picnic table... Well, that was enough to make a person wanna take a walk. The morning air had warmed a bit, the sun shining through the leaves of the trees to dapple the ground with dancing light. He took three deep breaths, in through the nose, out through the mouth. He felt better.

And it hadn’t taken long to get the lay of the land.

The entire Crank Palace had been designed in a pattern of circles. Sections of rings, bordered on both sides with circular roads or dirt paths. They grew smaller as he walked, gradually; he imagined an astronaut of old might compare it to seeing the Earth’s horizon take on its curvature as you rose higher toward space in your rocket ship. And from way up there, Newt figured the Palace must look like a giant game of darts, a bull’s-eye in the middle. That bull’s-eye was where he headed, and he heard a general clamor of noise coming from that direction.

Another memory leaked out of his Swiped mind—watching a football game on the telly, hearing the roar of the crowd when a striker kicked a goal. It couldn’t have been a thing happening in real time; it was a match recorded long ago by his... mum. Yes, his mum. He remembered watching it, clearly.

And the sound of that crowd was what he heard now, increasing in volume with every step. The central hub of the Palace must be a gathering spot of sorts; a large group of people definitely awaited him there, as if he were a gladiator about to step into the Coliseum of ancient times. His wiser half told him to turn around, to at least convince Terry or Keisha to go along with him. But that wasn’t going to happen. Newt needed to know what he’d gotten himself into.