“But I can starve just as fast as the next guy . . .”

“I’m sure we can afford a few donations.” But I was less than sure myself.

“So, if we feed ’em, they’ll stop shooting at us?” Grace crossed her arms defiantly.

“Somebody shot at us. We still don’t know who. Could’ve been a loner.” Rubio waved her aside. “You’re blocking my view.”

“Now you’re defending them?”

“I’m not defending anyone. I’m only stating what we know.” Rubio settled back on his butt and crossed his long legs, warming to the debate. “I’m pretty sure there’ll be no handouts to BlackAdder, if that’s what you’re on about. Helping out Ladysmith’s or Tall Tommy—that’s called building alliances.”

Rivera crouched to study the map. “Probably how Rousseau sees it, too.”

“It’s not like we don’t have our favorites already,” Rubio went on. “You saw who showed up at the meeting. The rhetoric may be all about den independence, the rugged commune surviving on its own and all that, but sides are being drawn. We’re not getting out of here anytime soon, so we’re going to need rules about how we should operate as a society. We can’t just keep making it up as we go along. We’re going to need all the help we can get when the shit really hits the fan.”

I was glad none of the lads were listening in. “Hurricane Joe wasn’t shit enough?”

“But that’s just weather. I’m talking about when the dens decide to take what they need, instead of trading for it. For now, we’ll have the usual post-storm surplus of free salvage, but that’s coming to an end.” Rube spread his hands. “I mean, sure, we have food, but we’re unarmed, undefended, and practically at water level. We need to consider the longer term. We need to . . .”

Speak of the devil, and lo . . .

“Shhh.” Rivera jogged Rubio’s arm as a scowling pack of Rousseau’s lads shouldered out of the Mess, laden with sacks of rice and beans, crates of eggs and vegetables, and stomped past us into the mudroom.

“Man, I don’t know how you’ve lived this long,” muttered Grace.

Rubio set his jaw. “Someone has to advocate for change.”

Bored with a debate she wasn’t going to win, Grace moved on to me. “By the way, nice hair. What the hell happened?”

“Cut it.”

“Maybe you could’ve used scissors instead of a battle axe?”

A stir by the mudroom door exploded into whoops and applause. We all scrambled to our feet.

Grace stretched to peer over the crowd. “Awright!”