The man took an exaggerated step toward the side of the path, squared himself on his feet, then swept forward in a ridiculous, grand bow, one hand crossed over his belly, the other rising up behind him.

He spoke to the ground. “Then I’m sorry to have disturbed you, my good man. As you were.”

“As I was,” Newt muttered.

He walked toward the crowd noise that hovered in the air like smog.

* * *

No one else bothered him, at least not directly. He certainly saw some things that bothered him.

A naked woman clung upside down to the lowest branch of a tree, her arms and legs wrapped around the bark-scratchy wood above her. She made no noise, made no noticeable effort to let herself down, but followed Newt with her eyes as he hurried to scoot past her. There were enough bare-knuckled fights breaking out on the streets and between the huts to keep him entertained if he got bored. A man sat on one of the rings of streets, filthy beyond measure, his back rigid and straight as he sang a soft tune of gibberish. Nearby, two women stood facing each other, staring into one another’s eyes, saying nothing, completely still. At their feet lay a man looking blissfully at the sky. Literally with the Bliss, judging by the false glee in his eyes.

These sights increased the farther he went, discouraging him with each step, until he finally came upon a wall, maybe 12 feet high. Unlike the barrier that bordered the Crank Palace as a whole, this wall wasn’t made up of wooden planks, nailed together. This one was cement, or stucco, once painted but now a patchwork of crusty flakes of pastels. An archway stretched over an opening in the wall, which led to the crowd he’d been hearing on the other side, a swath of people milling about like giant, fired-up ants. At the top of the opening’s arch, there was a sign with bright letters that seemed as out of place as a kindergarten—from which it very likely might’ve been stolen—would have been in that nasty place.

CENTRAL ZONE

Newt paused, looking at the sign. Maybe he should go back. Hadn’t he learned enough for one day? Wouldn’t he feel safer with a weapon or a friend? Yes and yes. But he walked through the archway regardless, into a sea of frantic activity.

The “zone” was wide and circular, just as he’d imagined—the bull’s-eye of the Crank Palace from above. Along its outer edge, a ring of dilapidated shops, offices, and restaurants faced inward, most of them looking like they hadn’t run a respectable business in years. Where once windows and doors had resided, there were now only empty spots of darkness or hastily nailed-up boards. The glass had been taken long ago. Not many eligible signs remained, either, though one said, in clear black letters against a white background, “Howard’s Hoagies: The Best Sammies in the Valley!”