Spunk had a drinker’s red-rimmed eyes without ever taking a drop, and wild red hair to match. Adrenaline was his drug of choice. He walked with a lazy limp that vanished out on the streets, which he ruled like a feral cat. You could take him for dumb or deranged, so newbies often underestimated him. I learned pretty quick that he read most of us loud and clear. The thought made me glance away from his scrutiny.

“So, what izzit?” Still wet from the rain, he leaned in close to talk without bellowing over the din. He smelled like the river. “Trouble out dere?”

“Nah, just . . . you know. Bad draw. Seems I get a lot of them.”

He shrugged cheerfully, his bony arms flopping up and down as if aiming for flight. “But yer buildin’ good rep. Life’ll improve. Shur dat’s all yer worried about?”

Spunk claimed to be fifty, looked older. He’d lived on and off the streets all his life, until Rousseau showed him what his mission was. Even so, the den hemmed him in. He came and went, and his bunk was a tent on the roof. Maybe why he was always so windblown. He had no time for slackers or fibbers, and he’d saved my life more than once during training runs. I adored him.

“It’s just the usual. Stuff gets to me.” I made a show of nothing-serious, but in case he saw through that, I told him about the ransacked mews house. At least that was the truth.

“Yah, good call. Dint wanna be goin’ in dere on yer lonesome. Mebbe we check it out two-some one night.”

“You’re on.” I bent my head. “If they haven’t torched it already.”

“Yah. So it go.”

Time to change the subject. “Big excitement, huh? Uptowner raid?”

He cackled darkly. “Dress rehearsal.”

“How do you mean?”

“Fer da real t’ing.”

That gave me a chill. “What would that be?”

“When dey come fer us full-tilt.”

“The uptowners?”

“Whoevah!”

Was he winding me up? Sometimes he liked to spook us. “I heard shots were fired.”

“Shots?” His pale eyes narrowed, like, had he missed something? He seemed to decide he’d pushed this game too far. “Nah, dis was jus’ rich kids. But dey’re somet’ing ta watch out fer, too, y’know.”

“Really? Since when?”

“I call ’em Abel’s Orphans. Parents long las’ gave up an’ lef’ town. Mebbe dead. Kids stayin’ on cuz dey can, up dere in Dryland. No one ta say no, so dey’re usin’ da town like dere playgroun’.” Spunk’s face twisted as he leaned into his rant. “Racin’ around, harassin’ da honest workin’ folk! Kin come an’ go as dey like, an’ a course da Law doan touch ’em!”