Because Rivera was only small next to Gracie, with a rep for being ferocious on the judo mat, I just nodded. Neither of us was looking for real conversation, not in the middle of a melee. Grace tossed me a smirk and headed for the showers.

Main was a smelly, echoing, two-story box with a balcony wrapping 360 and traces of ancient blue paint still clinging to its moldy walls. A mismatched row of bars scavenged from derelict saloons ran along one side, where it was business as usual for the clerks and tellers laboring to tally the night’s finds while the rest of the den jazzed all around them.

Scanning the line-up, I chose the old Korean woman because she was the most burned out and asked the fewest questions—too busy nattering at the tellers to either side of her. I queued up, trying not to look as ragged as I felt. Good that things were moving slow. Each picker turning in their stuff and getting their chits took me one step closer to now or never.

Easy enough to say: one is the rule, make your choice and be done with it. Till then, I’d never questioned it. But then, I’d never picked a haul that truly tempted me. Rubio would call it a moral crossroads, and I wasn’t dealing with it well. I’d let it tangle up with my issues of identity. Like, if I knew who I was, would I know better what to do?

Playing at casual but twitching inside, I let my gaze drift overhead. With the heavy cloud layer, the solars were struggling, so most of the hall’s lamps were offline to save juice, and the weak dawn hadn’t begun its daily ooze down the tall well from the central skylight up on the roof. This huge, ribbed circle of milky glass must have been a wonder in the glory days. We kept it leak-free and as clean as we could in a dirty climate, so it still let in some natural light.

To edge aside last-second qualms, I pondered Rousseau’s cell phone ban, which I’d also taken for granted. Like, how do we know they won’t work if we never give ’em a try? And, could we fix the towers ourselves? Had we even tried? My mind drifted, until a hand clamped hard on my shoulder, nails digging in.

“Hava good night, Glimmagirl?”

“Ow-oo!” I squawked, once I got my breath.

My street coach beamed at me with jovial savagery. Even he was high on the raid.

“Jeez, Spunk!” I pried his fingers off my abused collarbone.

He two-slapped my fat grab bag like it was a drum. “Looks lika winna!”

“Did okay, for once.”

“Doan git greedy nah!” He eased off and regarded me, deepening my sense of teetering on a precipice.