We laughed. She’d had the cot next to me in the Ward, post-Wave recovery and rehab. She’d suffered worse physical injuries, only brief memory loss. We’d helped each other through it, so we’d bonded, but were still unsure if each could move past the other being a reminder of all that pain and confusion. Like, was that same ember of terror banked in my eyes that I saw in hers? Plus, Jenn was nutty as granola, though you’d never know it to look at her right then.

Anyhow, we behaved like real friends. She’d shared her birth name with me—Myra, which she hated. Her den name honored a friend lost in Dara. I was sorry I couldn’t offer mine in return. S’okay, kiddo, she’d say. It’ll come to you someday. Still, I always felt she was testing me, to see if I was trustworthy. Not sure about what. Not sure if I was. Especially now.

I nodded at the screen. “Just the basics, I’m afraid.”

She squinted at the crawl. “Any chance for a dry one?”

A picker’s nightly wish. “Might have to wait a few days.”

Jenn was tall, thirtyish, and rail-thin like most of us—any den rat who could stay heavy had a glandular disorder. Her straight hair was cropped like a bowl, and you could feel her big, musical voice hum in your chest. Her wry smile was mostly for show, of course. She could make nice with anyone, but it had nothing to do with being happy. Like me, she’d lost everything, her entire before, the difference being that she could tell you about it. The family and friends dead or fled over the years, the budding career in web design cut short, the lover who convinced her to stay and stay, first after Hasan, then Felix, then left on his own in a panic just before Abel. While my issues were trauma related, hers were likely genetic. Bipolar, the shrink suggested. She’d learned to cope pretty well, and he helped with meds when he could get them.

“You mind?”

I sat back, slid the keyboard over. “All yours.”

But she wasn’t after a better weather report. Her arm’s-length mix of salvaged bangles sparkled and clinked as she tapped out a long, complicated run, murmuring about the way cooler tech she’d always had before.

“Still looking for those cousins in Minnesota?”

“Pretty sure I’ve found them. I just can’t get them to find me back.” She waited, fingers twitching, then went at it again. “Hard to know for sure. Connections are so round-about now.”

“Maybe they’re worried about having another mouth to feed.”

Her hands flattened on the keyboard. I might as well have punched her.

“I didn’t . . . I mean, I’m sure they’ll . . .” Would I ever think before I spoke?