On the wall, in addition to recording current water levels, the duty map marked each known den with a big black square, then a dotted line around each one, delineating the five-block radius of that den’s local territory. Accepted practice was to steer clear unless invited.

“Very systematic. But already time for an update.”

Two of our scouts had trotted in, returning from a survey trip in our little outboard. A small crowd gathered to see how the clerk translated their report onto the duty map. The scouts wouldn’t have gone as far as the Souk, so I’d get no hint of when Daniel might reopen his stall. Anyhow, why should that matter to me?

I tapped Rubio’s knee. “Look. Chelsea’s under water now—Ladysmith’s turf, and it’s creeping up on Macy’s. Maybe there’ll be westside walkways soon.”

“More boats is a better idea.” He rubbed at a healing chin scrape and buried a cough in his palm. “We need to get into serious boat-building if we’re going to live like Venetians.”

“With serious boats, we’d have a chance to get out of here.”

He nodded. “To our new den.”

“No. To the Mainland.”

He snorted, then drew a series of parallel lines along his ruler. “With the com down, we don’t even know if there is a Mainland.”

“Of course there’s a Mainland! Where would it go?”

He gave me one of his less-flattering looks. “Under water?”

“All of it?”

“Well, no. But at least another good chunk of coast and estuaries. The surge might mostly recede, but the damage will have been done. Another thirty million homeless looking for a perch on higher ground, of which there is less and less. At some point, we’ll be the American Archipelago.”

“Jeez! Aren’t you cheery this morning!”

“Just realistic. Like every morning.”

There was a den tendency to think of the Mainland as impervious to the woes visited on the Island. But what had Superstorm Joseph done to Fort Lee or Nyack, up high on the Palisades, and how far did it rage up the Hudson? Until we had a signal again, no way to know, and maybe not even then.

Rubio bent back to his drawing. “Time to move uptown.”

Rivera slid up beside us as the clerk redrew the East Side shoreline several blocks further west. The hall buzzed with dismay.

“You look better,” I told her. Her dark braid was glossy again, her injuries fading.

Her smile bloomed, tentative but lovely. “Nothing like a day at home.”

Grace came motoring over, slapping her thighs like she was ready to take someone on full bore. “Didja hear, the boss is sending out care packages to the dens who got hit worse than we did? The lads are pissed.”

“What else is new?” I muttered.

Rivera pursed her lips. “Not sure how I feel about it either.”

“Good diplomacy,” said Rubio.