High tide and dirty run-off sluiced across the pavement at 59th, but I could jog the sidewalks without splashing. Should’ve been more scared all along, but being so hard on mission had dulled my anxiety. On foot again, I pondered my giving in to crazy impulse. Like Rube said, I barely knew the guy. And what help could I really be if he was in trouble?

But it wasn’t just about Daniel. Some big truth was being ignored, or even withheld from us downtown, and I wanted to get up to speed. Besides, too late for cold feet now. I was nearly there. I drank deep from my water bottle and pressed on.

The wind was up, raking my nose with the bite of smoke. Not a good sign. Denfolk tell of the infernos that raged across the Island after the first big superstorms—due to ruptured gas lines, lightning strikes, or just plain arson, the fire-fighting gear already damaged or destroyed. I missed all that. But the fire-bombing of Ladysmith’s was horror enough.

From Fifth and 59th, I plotted a straight diagonal across the park to where I thought Daniel’s stall would be. But this was unfamiliar ground. I kept plowing into deep water or choosing paths that abruptly snaked away from my goal. I skirted several blue-tarped squatter camps, tangling in the ragtag fencing they’d thrown up to hold livestock in the bug-infested swampland. Hard to believe Rube’s tales of playing on grassy lawns as a boy.

The smoke thickened as I trotted uptown, hanging low among the battered trees. A rumble of voices drifted with it, like a distant argument. In the market outskirts, where the stalls were often just tarps on the ground, vendors were hurtling about in the haze, packing up their goods. After the morning’s drenching, what could be dry enough to burn?

I hit the Souk’s central lane somewhere in the antiques sector. Too far north. Doubling back, I had to dodge dealers racing to pile furniture and crates into handcarts, bundling their tents haphazardly on top, bellowing at each other to hurry. Like the full-scale emergency evacuation we drilled for in the den. Had I missed a major storm warning?

Except here and there, a merchant stood calmly by, dusting or rearranging the stock, looking smug. Not a storm, then. Something else. I’d find out soon enough.

I nearly overshot Daniel’s spot, hardly recognizing it—or him. Stunned, I pulled up sharp and ducked behind the tent next door to take it in.

His stall was a wreck—books and papers scattered, shelving all tipped sideways, crates overturned. He was in one piece, but mud- and soot-stained, the lettering on his rosy Book Dude T-shirt barely readable. I had no plan beyond making sure he was okay and reminding him about the caucus, and no excuse for showing up uninvited—again.

But what was he up to?