Not packing, or even cleaning up. Just burrowing through the toppled, sodden piles. He’d reach for a book, shake it, and toss it down again. Finally, he upended one book and paper fluttered to the ground. He snatched it up and dropped it in an old pail beside his foot. The book went into a plastic crate behind him.

Must be looking for something. Well, I could help with that, whatever it was.

I called three times before he heard me. He straightened and turned, pail in hand. His eyes were red-rimmed, his jaw stubbly, smeared with black. He looked . . . older, harder. And not particularly welcoming.

“Glimmer. What are you doing here?”

Seemed I kept making my entrance off-cue, at least where he was concerned. “Wondering if you’re okay.”

He frowned, like so much smoke and wreckage was normal. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You took off. Left everything behind. People were worried.”

“People?”

“Like Rousseau . . . and Jake. You said you’d talk at the big den meeting.”

“Ah. Right. And you’re their appointed messenger?”

“Something like that.” Not on solid ground here.

“Huh.” He relaxed into a weary bemusement and regarded me across the jumble of damp paperbacks and broken shelving like he could see right into me.

I had to look away and gesture around the stall. Humiliating to be so transparent. “So we were right to worry. What happened here? Why’s everyone in a panic?”

Daniel stretched his back, stealing a long, wary look down the line of booths toward the heaviest smoke. “You really shouldn’t be here.”

I crossed my arms. “I guess you won’t make it to the caucus. Unless there’s stuff I can help you with.”

He swung the pail fitfully in one hand. Whatever he’d been doing, I was keeping him from it. “There’s not much time.”

“For what?”

“Till they get here.”

“Who?”

“The reason you should leave. Now.”

“Not till I know why.”

“Then you will?”

I shrugged.

He sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Okay. I talked about the guys selling security . . . ?”

At last I was one up on him. “Was it a guy named Bright?”

The pail stopped swinging. “How’d you know?”

“He wrecked your stall?”

“Not hands on. He’d muss up his suit. He delegates.”

“You have proof?”

“Does it matter? He came ’round with his offer, and then . . .” Daniel glanced around, hands spread, then down toward the smoke again and back at me. “How’d you know?”

“He showed up at Unca Joe this morning, with his muscle-boy escort.” I stepped over the cascade of shredded hardbacks so we wouldn’t have to yell at each other.

“They’re going after the dens? Anyone hurt?”

I shook my head. “Rousseau ran him off.”

“Not likely. Or, not for long.”

“Maxine nearly ate his face. Accused him of . . .”