I wasn’t friendly with all my denmates, but at least their faces were familiar. It could freak me out to round a corner and smack into some guy with a full beard, or to see some stranger cleaning a weapon at breakfast.

The Smiths were not ungrateful, and they did their best. But they were in a bad way. Every one of them had lost family, friends, lovers, and their grief and anger couldn’t just be set aside. A week of rain, and we were stuck inside with each other. Tempers frayed. Some dumb lad thinking it helpful to ask, “But why didn’t you just . . .” might end up in a scuffle.

And then there were the funerals, so many of them, with quick-built rafts struggling to burn in the rain, often for dead whose remains were never identified or even found. Ashes to ashes. Too wet for dust. The weather stayed grim, and so did our mood.

But it could’ve been worse. Easy to point out that Tall Tommy was the nearest den, but only by city blocks. Each den had its own style, what Rubio called its ‘culture,’ partly due to the flavor of its leadership and its founding cadre, but also to how communities tend to encourage the values and behavior they agree on. That is, if they want to stay together.

Jake always said Tall Tommy was run like a military fashion show, and Empire State like a bank. Us Joes might complain about Rousseau’s rules, but compared to many dens, we were pretty loose, and so was Ladysmith’s. I couldn’t see some of Ladysmith’s portly family men and women hanging at ease with one of Tommy’s over-decorated bodybuilders. Maxine, faced with a desperate choice of where to direct her retreat, showed a good instinct for which den would be most compatible with her own. Still recovering from her injuries, she fell in step with Rousseau’s leadership. The two of them went about together, snuffing arguments and handing out patience lectures.

It was Rousseau’s idea to start mixing up the work parties: one Smith for every Joe, so we’d get to know each other. Of course, this meant one armed Smith. And that’s how I teamed up with Breakers and Poppy.

First morning I was cleared for the streets, I was up before the wake-up. Climbing down to wake Rubio, I found his bunk empty. A rumpled mess, so I knew he’d been in it, but unlike him to be up so early. First thought was he’d taken sick. I scrammed downstairs, and there he was in the hall, a breakfast wrap in one hand, a mug in the other. He waved the half-eaten sandwich at two lads dragging over a heavy table.

“Over there, along the wall. No, couple feet farther. Better pull it out some.”