“I’m not really . . .” She looked at her hands, wringing them low in her lap.

“C’mon . . .” I touched her wrist to still her. “How many?”

“We’re down four.”

“Oof. Who?”

“Zane and little Mikka. But Rousseau says one of the other dens probably took them in.” She fiddled with the raveled edge of my blanket, still avoiding my gaze. “I could fix this for you. Make it pretty.”

“C’mon, Jenn. We’re down four and . . . ?”

Her hands sprang apart. “No one’s seen Spunk in a while.”

My stomach clenched. “Shit.”

“Uh-huh.”

I shook my head. “No, no, he’ll be fine. It’s Spunk, after all. Mr. Streets. He’ll have found a hide somewhere and hunkered down, you’ll see.”

“I’m sure you’re right.” She didn’t look sure.

“No, really. Like I should’ve. Could’ve walked home dry after. Like Spunk will.”

She was picking at the blanket again. “You think he’s invincible.”

“No, I . . .” But truthfully, I did. Didn’t we all? “Got faith in him, that’s all. Nobody walks the streets like Spunk. It’s an art form.”

Her hands were fussing each other so hard it must hurt. “But maybe he’s dead. You know he could be! You could’ve been, too! If we could just get off this damn island, we wouldn’t have to deal with this all the time!”

“There’s weather on the Mainland, too,” I said.

“It’s not just the weather, it’s . . . all of it! I hate it! I hate it!”

“Easy there.” I laid my hands over hers to still them. Likely the storm stirred up Jenn’s Abel nightmares like it did mine. I sidelined worrying about Spunk. “Hey, d’you eat yet?”

“Yeah, a while ago.” She’d been looking for an easy exit. “But if you hurry, there might be some left.”

“Come with and we can clear a path to your workstation.”

That cheered her, for the moment at least.

But I’d missed both the cold meal and the pep talk. The oil lamps burned low. Trays and serving bowls, mostly empty, scattered on whatever crate or piece of furniture came to table height. I scavenged enough leftover rice ’n’ beans to fuel me up short-term. At least the herbal was still warm.