“What do we do with them?” Jake was stunned as helpless as the rest of us.

“Feed them!” Rousseau boomed, his arms waving in all directions. “In the name of Christ, offer them comfort and sustenance!”

Jake eyed him warily. “Right away, boss!”

Getting hold of himself, Rousseau turned to Song-yi. “Tell the medics. And rouse the kitchen staff.”

“You got it.” Jake shouted for volunteers as he shoved through the crowd around the open doors. On his way, he grabbed Peeto by the scruff. “Time to earn your keep, boyo.”

Then everyone was in motion. The two women from Gimme Shelter hurried toward the ragged, wide-eyed kids. Daniel and Zuleika grabbed pitchers of water from the conference tables and followed. When the kids shrank in terror, they set the pitchers on the floor and backed off. Jake got a taskforce working to roll up the metal blinds on the kitchen hatches, to root around in the food bins and drag out whatever could be eaten raw. He sent Peeto upstairs to rouse the morning-duty cooks from their bunks.

“We could all use a bite,” remarked Rubio, moving off to help.

All strength had drained out of me. Forget my own hunger, or all the bad news weighing me down. Nothing compared to the Macys’. But I did know how they felt. Those blank-faced little girls . . . right after Abel, that was me.

Food appeared on the counter. The Gimme girls bundled up little care packages and set them beside the water jugs, soothing with soft words and gestures. Some of the kids’ eyes began to focus.

“Give them some space,” Zuleika said. “They need to know they’re safe.”

Safe? How could any of us feel safe now? The Adders were right across town!

“Of course.” Rousseau cleared the room of idle onlookers. “Over there against the wall, lay in blankets, pillows, whatever can be spared.”

Go wake Rivera, I told myself. She’ll know what to do. But still I couldn’t move.

Once cushions and blankets were piled at the far end of the room, the Gimme Shelter girls urged the kids to sit or lie down, got a few of them drinking water, and the worst injuries sorted to the medics. Daniel and Zuleika brought bowls of fruit and day-old rolls.

Rousseau herded the other den leaders away from the kids. Spunk, with his odd talent for making anyone his student, enlisted the Tommy muscle to move the conference tables. They regrouped at the far end, talking in low, angry tones.

“The party’s over,” Rousseau muttered, to no one in particular.

So many ways he could’ve meant that.