Dawn was seeping through the front entry as I raced up, from as sullen a sky as you could imagine. Out on the Lagoon, the work platforms and rough-built rafts creaked in the slow, deepening rhythm of the swell.

When we did evacuation drills, we never took our stuff with us, so it was chilling to see the bunk tiers so stripped and naked. Piles of bulging backpacks, totes, and duffles lined the balcony rail. Best to pack myself up first, then go to Jenn, so she could see me leaving, too.

But in my tier, I found Peeto, hanging one-armed like a scrawny squirrel, emptying Rubio’s level-two bunk, dumping everything onto the floor. I nearly lost it.

“What the hell are you doing?” I screeched.

He swiveled, still grasping the cross-brace, fighting his usual cut-and-run impulse.

“How dare you touch his stuff!” Maybe my teeth were even bared.

Peeto’s whole jaw quivered. “Don’t get on me! Boss told me to!”

“Sure, he did!”

“You go ask!”

“He was my friend! I should be doing that!”

“You weren’t here!”

My default with Peeto was pissed-off, dismissive, or both, but I couldn’t deny his point, even pitched as a whine. And his pinched look did slow me down. Anyone else, I’d have said he was teared up, damp cheeks and all. He dropped clumsily to the floor and we both stood there, with Rubio’s scant possessions scattered around us, Peeto looking everywhere but at me.

“I was just . . . the boss said . . . forget it. You finish up.” He turned away, swiping at his nose with his fist.

An actual apology stuck in my craw, though for once, maybe he deserved one. “Okay. Just hand it all down,” I grumbled. “We’re on double-time now. It’ll go faster with two.”

My abrupt capitulation made him suspicious, but he climbed up again to gather the rest. We finished in silence. Other sharp exchanges or angry retorts echoed through the empty tiers, even the occasional outbreak of weeping, as the packing wrapped up. Peeto and I just got the job done. It didn’t take long, and not much longer to fold Rube’s stuff into the suitcase he claimed he’d arrived with, stored under Jake’s bottom bunk. Up-tier, the take-down crews got loudly to work salvaging the planks and posts to be reassembled at the stadium.

When we were done, Peeto stood back, quirking a hand at the open case. “You want anything?”

By tradition, a lost denmate’s stuff was first offered among his/her tier-mates. If there’d been any worthy keepsake, a reminder of Rubio and our friendship, I’d have taken it. But there wasn’t. I knelt and pulled out the half-dozen books, including the big hardback Daniel had given him. The rest would go to the swap shelves in our new den home.

“These can go to the book boat. The tellers don’t value them.”