Chapters (47)
- Cover
- ALSO BY MARJORIE B. KELLOGG AVAILABLE FROM DAW BOOKS
- Dedication
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- FORTY-TWO
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- About the Author
I knew the drill from Rubio’s endless history lessons—for my own good, of course. The checkpoints went up when martial law was declared again, after Superstorm Ruby and the epidemic that followed. (This was three clusters before Abel, before either of us was born—Rubio was named for her.) Islanders had to register within two weeks or be listed as deceased. A lot of downtowners, avoiding contagion or still digging out from the surge, never got the chance. Even if you did, you had to have all the right papers to begin with. If my parents had them, I might have had them, too, before Abel. But when you’re hauled half-drowned and bare-assed from the rubble, small chance you’ll be able to produce your ID.
So . . . might be documents. Oh my. Wasn’t just the close space making my chest heave. But . . . the girl’s personal ID? Would she toss it away so easy?
Maybe, if that’s what the thug boys were after. Or if it wasn’t really hers.
Documents. What if? What if!
I dug the sheath and ziplocks out of the pack. The pills rattled in their little plastic domes. In the dark, no way to ID them. Might find a light between here and the den, but most likely I’d have to wait for my bunk to read labels. Even then . . . well, I was no medic.
Shaking off second thoughts, I stuffed packet and pills into my belly wallet, the one thing denfolk wore day and night, to protect the few precious things any of us possessed. Our one place of privacy.
Just keeping them dry. Making sure they stay safe. Sure.
Meanwhile, I’d missed the silence outside my stuffy hide. I cracked open the trailer door. Dripping everywhere and the gutters awash, but the sky had shut off its spigots at last. Maybe my luck was in for a change.
Back on the street, heading home, I did my usual due diligence: watching, listening, walking soft. But the packet kept claiming my attention. Like, if it was papers, maybe they were forged or stolen, so the girl was looking to dump them, making me the random street snatch who’d clear the evidence. Well, a fair trade: I disappear her hot papers, I get her fully stuffed pack. But had she meant me to keep it? I’d left without finding out.