He looked to see what I was squinting at, gave it his attention. But his voice had gone rough. “Then they killed a friend of mine. Just like that. Beat him to death when he wouldn’t share his girl around. Won’t go into what they did to her. Held the rest of us down to watch. We couldn’t do shit to stop them . . .” He spat out the last words as rage, guilt, remembered impotence and grief surged across his face in waves. For a moment, he drifted helpless in the wake. I worried he’d burst into tears and shame himself further. I let my eyes wander, sparing him a witness. But soon enough, he raked both hands through his hair and found his sleek bad-boy mask again. “Yep. Meat on legs.”

I pictured the dead friend like the other young drunks at our encounter on the Causeway. Soft-cheeked. Entitled. In way over his head. “So Dark Boy became Julian again?”

He buzzed air through his lips. “Don’t make it into a morality tale. The risks outweighed the thrills after, that was all. We got . . . careful. Stuck to ourselves since then.” He sang softly, like quoting a lyric. “Been wild all night, but ain’t no jungle animal . . .” Then his flat gaze scorched past me. “Okay, here’s some action now . . .”

I whirled, sure he meant Adders. But it was Daniel, shepherding two more battered children. Poppy followed, helping an older kid limp along. Hannah brought up the rear, backing through the bay door with her bow trained on the dark interior.

Julian stood up in his seat. “Where the fuck we gonna put ’em all?”

Daniel was . . . barely recognizable. Not just the blood and ash as thick as paint smearing his skin and clothing. Or the sweat washing through it in rivulets, leaving him zebra-striped, like a gore-streaked villain in a video game. His predatory stance, every muscle taut, the gleam of the hunt in his eyes. How had such a terrifying creature convinced small children to come away with him?

He took in the scene on the loading dock without visible response: me beside Sprite, Julian’s nearly full load, the brightening dawn. His gaze swept past us to the old fishing boat at the far end of the dock, like making sure she was still there. But I read it as a suggestion.

Really? She looked a wreck to me, but maybe he’d already checked her out. My brain fired up like a lit match: Is she sound? Is she fueled? Was a key left behind? Will she even start? If she would, problem solved.

No point waiting for answers or permission, or for Daniel to yell at me for always being where I shouldn’t. Next thing, I was sprinting toward the old hulk. Finally, something I could do to help.