A new concern crossed Jin's mind.  "If heights make you dizzy, the gutter could be a problem."  An awful picture arose of his guest falling headfirst over the parapet while trying to pee in the dark.  His off-worlder guest.  "See, chickens don't fly as well as you'd think, and baby chicks can't fly at all.  I lost two of Mrs. Speck's children over the parapet, when they got big enough to clamber up to the ledge but not big enough to flutter down safely if they fell over.  So for the in-between time, I tied a long string to each one's leg, to keep them from going too far.  Maybe I could, like . . . tie a line around your ankle or something?"

Miles stared up at him in a tilted fascination, and Jin was horribly afraid for a moment that he'd mortally offended the little man.  But in a rusty voice, Miles finally said, "You know—under the circumstances—that might not be a bad idea, kid."

Jin grinned relief, and hurried to find a bit of rope in his cache of supplies.  He hitched one end firmly to the metal rail beside the tower door, made sure it paid out all the way to the corner gutter, and returned to affix the other end to his guest's ankle.  The little man was already asleep, the water bottle tucked under one arm and the gray cat under the other.  Jin looped the rope around twice and made a good knot.  After, he climbed back onto the chair and dimmed the hand light to a soft nightlight glow, trying not to think about his mother.

Sleep tight, don't let the bedbugs bite.

If I ever find bedbugs, I'll catch them and put them in my jars.  What do bedbugs look like, anyway?

I have no idea.  It's just a silly rhyme for bedtimes.  Go to sleep, Jin!

The words had used to make him feel warm, but now they made him feel cold.  He hated cold.

Satisfied that he'd made all safe, and that the intriguing off-worlder could not now abandon him, Jin returned to the parapet, swung over, and started down the rungs.  If he hurried, he would still get to the back door of Ayako's Cafe before all the good scraps were thrown out at closing time.

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

When Armsman Roic woke for the second time—or maybe it was the third—the opaque drug-mush in his head had cleared to a thin, throbbing haze.  He felt for his wristcom and found it, unsurprisingly, gone.  Groaning, he turned on his musty mattress thrown on the floor of this . . . place, and opened his eyes to plain daylight and his first clear view of his prison.