After breakfast, I was hanging over the walkway rail, waiting to meet my new picking partner and meanwhile reckoning the sea-level rise since Joseph. I worried about heading out into a city where one den burned another to the waterline. The rain had finally left off. It was a bright day, despite the cloud. I felt Gracie’s shadow cross my back before she leaned over beside me.

“Gonna be tricky getting the canoes in under the window arches now.”

I nodded. “Our new den needs a real boathouse. Rube says Empire has one.”

“New den,” Grace scoffed, adjusting her street cap. Her thick braid was wound tight at the back of her neck and her T-shirt tucked in smooth. She looked battle-ready. “You think Rousseau’s serious about that?”

“He is now. Has to be.”

“We’ll see . . .”

As we stood there, the sun nosed out from behind the cloud cover, sculpting the cornices and steep pediments of Unca Joe with crisp light and shadow. The Lagoon was a still, bright mirror. Looking down, I could see myself gazing back at us.

“Smells so different after a big rain. Almost fresh.”

Grace sucked her teeth. “Wouldn’t go that far.”

We watched some of our guys head out, with their newly assigned Ladysmith buddies. Not a picker in two dens staying home this morning, with fair weather and Rousseau on a mission to rebuild our supplies. Spunk had finally been convinced against solos, so we were all in groups, for safety’s sake, with an armed Smith escort.

“Guys with guys, gals with gals?” Gracie noted. “What’s with that?”

I shrugged. “Rousseau. Fewer distractions on the streets.”

Gracie guffawed. “As if! These Smith guys got hair everywhere. I like ’em smooooth!” Then she slid a step closer, squinting into the glare off the water. “So, listen. What would you say to a really big score? Since it’s just us girls?”

I laughed.

“Seriously.”

“Now what is it?” Grace was a great one for wild schemes and riskier plans.

“Can’t see if you’re not there . . .”

Rivera came down along the rail, chatting with a frizz-haired Smith chick in a yellow tee.

Grace murmured, “That’s Poppy. Me and Di are sharing her.”

“What’s her story?”

“Still finding out.”

Poppy was freckly-tawny, maybe mid-twenties, and a match for Grace in stature. She looked fresh and strong rather than tough, but carried a lethal-looking machete. Despite some scabbed-over burns and a bandaged knee, there was bounce in her step and she smiled like all was well with the world. I gave her points for that, given what she’d just been through. Later, I’d realize she was mostly glad to have survived.

“I got one to myself,” I said. “Waiting for her to show.”

“Good. We’ll need the help.”

“What about our assigned draws? You know the boss when we go off on our own . . .”