A long speech for Spunk. The raid—or rich kids—had him really riled. ‘Rich kids’ was sort of a construct to me. Like Adders or Storm Worshippers, I’d never actually met one. Or maybe I just had. Was that my ninja girl’s crowd? Had to wonder at the coincidence.

“What about our crew? Everyone get back okay tonight?”

Spunk glanced away, his high draining off to a slight frown. He tracked another young picker elbowing across the crowded hall with a rusted metal box hiked up under one arm. “I guess. Coupla dust-ups, accident or two. Ain’t what it use’ta be out dere. But nobody hurt too bad.”

Spunk’s ‘used-to-be’ was less than four months ago, after Abel slammed through and its higher-than-ever surge retreated the little it was going to. Picking was at a high point. Lots to be had out there, long as you didn’t mind trolling through collapsed buildings, smashed-up boats, or rotting layers of drowned citizens and their pets. What Rubio called ‘your usual post-hurricane holocaust.’ But there was enough to go around, so the streets were quiet. At least according to the old hands. To us newbies, it was your-life-on-the-line, every minute.

“Nobody hurt too bad?” I prompted, since that usually meant somebody’d ended up at the medics. But Spunk didn’t advertise mistakes or failures. Like it might break our spirit or something. He taught us how the city was one vast booby trap, getting worse as tides strengthened, bolts corroded, foundations weakened. He trained us how to avoid the random rapist, rogue, or mugger. He did his best to prepare us. But as pickings got slim again, as at some point they must, pickers might start turning on each other. A scary thought we only shared behind Spunk’s back.

“Not ta worry.” He grinned, baring receding gums. “So. See ya in da Mess?”

“Maybe. I’m pretty beat.”

“Doan be starvin’ yerself, nah.”

Palms up, I made the weighing gesture. “Food? Sleep.” I let the sleep hand sink low.

“Gotcha. Next time, den. Keep doin’ whatcher doin’.”

I nodded. If only he knew. A hot jolt of guilt convinced me he might, he did. But his eagle gaze had shifted to the swinging doors of the mess hall. None of us was immune to the lure of food.

A sharp crack made us both jump and turn. The room stilled. But it was just clumsy hands at the tellers’ counter, the metal box shedding rust on the floor, the young picker apologizing. Relieved faces all around.

Spunk gave his signature cackle and slapped my arm. “Okay, kiddo. Step quiet!”

“You got it.”

When he moved off, my hands shook. First time I’d lied to him. Ever.