I turned my teary face away. He didn’t intend to be cruel. Only to welcome me to the fraternity of orphans, to help me come to terms with reality. But he wasn’t inside my head, and empathy was never Rube’s strong point. I wanted to run, anywhere away, but there was nowhere to go. I felt flayed, my skin inside-out again like those first weeks in the Ward, my bones shattered glass. But I’d lost the numb-button, the psychic-morphine drip I could call on before. If this was full recovery, I wasn’t sure I liked it.

“Is there a problem here?”

We jerked around, a matched pair of guilt and upset. I failed to get hold of myself. Rubio stared at his feet.

“Well?” Rousseau was in daddy-peacemaker mode. Only the tightness around his eyes suggested his exhaustion.

“Just a minor meltdown,” Rubio murmured. “About the storm.”

“Understandable.” Rousseau regarded me as I wiped my face with my shirt. He knew avoidance when he saw it. He leveled a thick finger at Rubio. “You are grounded till further notice. You’d be in the Ward if we had the room. But I want you in my office first thing tomorrow.”

I wondered when the man had seen his own bunk last.

“I didn’t . . .” Rubio said. “I never would . . .”

“I know that. Problem is, they don’t. And you do nothing to advance your case.” He gave the loft a final survey. “In the morning.”

We watched him disappear down the stairs.

“Guess he’ll be reading you the riot act,” I murmured.

“Don’t sound so happy about it.” Rubio studied me. “You okay?”

“Fine,” I lied. “Just got some processing to do.”

He nodded, satisfied. “Now we can move on to remembering your father.”

SEVENTEEN

I went after Jenn in her tier to beg a downer. Not my thing at all, but I was totally blown out. No way I wanted to lie awake all night wracked with survivor guilt or tormented by nightmares.

I eased down on her floor-level bunk. “Sorry to be a mooch . . .”

She was busy with her hair. “S’okay, kiddo. I got you covered.”

But I saw how her hand shook as she tipped the tiny blue dot into my palm. One less for her. I popped it dry into my mouth ’case she changed her mind, then watched her torture her hair for a while. Not with a comb but an actual hairbrush. I never saw the point, except hers did always look so neat and shiny.

“Any more posts from your mystery video pal?”

“You mean Aitch?”

“She has a name now?”

“I backtracked her tag.”

“Just H?”

“A-I-T-C-H. Like a last name, maybe?”

“Or a den name.”