Up in Main, the steamy air was electric. Every inch of space cleared of walkway bits and pieces was filled with the slamming together of crates and storage boxes. Through the open doors of the Mess, I saw the kitchen being dismantled. The cook staff ran about with lists amid a constant flare-up of debate about what should go where. I wondered how they’d keep us fed during the pack-up. Say-It-Again Sam hovered empty-handed, dismayed and disoriented. The sudden disruption was going to be really hard on him.

Rousseau stood by the tellers’ counter, directing traffic—goods, people, materials—his deep fatigue apparently swept aside by this new emergency. His dark face glowed with purpose and certainty. He looked like a leader again. And the lads were willingly busting ass.

Good on you, boss. Who thought you could move so fast? Who thought we could?

Daniel must’ve done his debriefing and gone back to the boat, where Hannah would be waiting, urging speed. And off they’d go. Well, that was that. Time to get back to my life in the den. Spunk was still in recovery and I didn’t see Jake anywhere. Out on new orders? I checked for Rube at Den Search Central, but the table had been removed to make room for stacks of finished crates. I spotted Irv pressed into a far corner with Maxine, talking her through a sheaf of water-stained papers, maybe his notes from the trip upriver. Both were frowning and intent, like Irv was trying to reassure his den leader, or maybe convince her. Any end-of-the-Adders celebrating was already shoved aside, to focus on the newer crisis.

I went up to the media loft, searching for Rubio. The whole teener IT squad was there yanking plugs, winding up cable, settling the cranky laptops and monitors into battered plastic tubs. I had a flash memory of cardboard boxes, how they’d become so precious that you kept each one till it was too shredded to be mended again. If cardboard was still being made these days, we weren’t getting any of it. But the plastics had lasted.

“Anyone seen Rubio?” I called over the youngsters’ frantic bustle. A chorus of nopes and head shakes, plus several thumb jerks followed by pleading looks toward the other end of the loft.

Not Rubio who concerned them, but Jenn. Penned inside a small thicket of equipment, like she’d hauled it up around herself for protection. She’d tap at one screen, then leave it to squint and tap at another, then move on to the next. In the dim loft, the bright screens lit her chin, nose, and cheekbones, but threw her eyes into deep shadow.

“What’s it about?” I asked one of the girls.

“Started with weather, then it was relatives. Can you get her to stop? Got to pack up.”

“She wouldn’t?”

“She’s . . . um . . . y’know . . . not listening.”