“Your interior barometer again?”

“Forget it.” Wasn’t going to let him start in on what he called my magical thinking. I nodded at the lowering cloud cover, touched by yet another wet dawn. “Least we can see our way home.”

“Home,” he muttered, like it was the last place he wanted to be.

Blinking lights against the metallic sky announced early-morning drone deliveries to the marina. Food, clean water, medications . . . all the necessities, straight from the Mainland. At least, so we assumed.

I gave up on the good news. “River’s come up another foot along Eighth. The 14th Street crossing is puddling.”

“This thing’s not done yet.” He coughed and spat into the water sliding by below, his hawk dropping among the scatter of debris washed downstream by the tide. “Time to look for higher ground. Too bad the boss man won’t listen.”

No one like Rubio for twisting casual chat into a complaint session. “He’s looking.”

“How hard is he looking?”

“Tough to find a place as good as Unca Joe.”

“Bullshit. A whole island of higher and drier. Rousseau’s stuck in an obsolete model. What worked for a den in the first years ain’t going to work after Abel and onward.”

“We eat. We sleep safe and dry. Why make it a crisis? Besides, it’s only half an island, most of which we got edged out of.”

“A little muscle could change that.”

“Oh, yeah? You ready to get into fighting trim?” I stared at him. “C’mon, Rube. Where would either of us be without Rousseau and Unca Joe?”

This only made Rubio hunch deeper into his shoulders, so his wiry man-bun hiked up behind his ears. He flicked his head to settle it. He only wore it to annoy Rousseau, who preached short hair and shaven cheeks as practical and hygienic. “Just ’cause he saved your life doesn’t mean he’s God.”

A guy in our bunk tier told me Rubio had issues with authority. No kidding.

I said, “Let’s not do this now, okay? It’s been a long night.”

“Sure. No problem.” But it clearly was. He turned back to stare out at the marina, where the boat lanterns were now winking out to save power.

“Hope those boys made it home to their den,” I mused.

“What boys?”

“Two baby Smiths, I’m guessing. Walked right by your nose, but never mind.”

Dawn was far enough along to show up the intricate structure of the walkways, always a puzzle. Like, what was attached to what? How could battered, sea-soaked wood hold up charred lengths of steel? How could something so fragile-looking stay so strong, through storm after storm?

“So, why?” Rubio murmured after a while.

“Why what?”

“Why do you like it here?”

“Forget it. You’ll just make fun.”

He shook his head. “Promise.”