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
Getting to know someone in the den, pretty quick things got around to what’s your story? Everyone had one, even long-time denfolk, mostly about how they meant to get off the Island but hadn’t managed yet. Oh, you could leave, if you had a boat or wanted to risk a swim. But without papers, there was nowhere you’d be allowed to land. So it was, well, I’m just waiting till I feel stronger. Or, can’t seem to contact my Mainland relatives. Or, not enough cash, not enough clout, but mostly . . . lost all my ID.
To ward off despair, table talk in the den was often about when life got back to normal—when the bridges reopened, when the water went down—what Rubio called Den Myth #1. Abel had wrecked the last of the cell towers, and no one was coming to fix them anytime soon, not downtown at least. So, with services down, news of the Mainland was scant and unreliable. Still, it had to be better there, right? It was the only normal we could imagine.
A way off the Island? Right there in my belly pack? What if? What if!
Even if the papers weren’t legit, good use could be made of them till they tripped some official wire uptown.
Or . . . I could use them, on my own.
That whisper again, tugging at my ear with needle teeth.
Den conditioning is strong. It works its way in deep, especially if it’s all you know . . . or can remember. Right there on the sluicing pavement, I got the shakes so bad I had to drop my head between my knees.
Was I really thinking of stealing from my den?
A tearing noise from uptown brought me upright. A drawn-out ripping, then a pop, followed by a muted cheering. The sound of wood being scavenged from some scaffold or walkway. Fuel for a Storm Worshipper bonfire?
Time to hustle. The night streets weren’t the smartest place to work out a dilemma. Especially one based on a mere crinkle of paper in the dark.
But I had to wonder: when I finally held the contents of my belly pack up to the light, would I know what to do?
THREE
You might ask, in a world defined by scavenging and thievery, what’s so bad about helping yourself now and then? A den loyalist would say: when daily life’s this sketchy, it pays to play by the rules. Den rules, that is. In unity is survival.
But on the trudge home, my brain was doing somersaults. Do it, don’t do it. Betray the den I owed my life to or give in to dreams of freedom and the Mainland. Tough choice.