It was never really quiet in the tiers, but tonight it was noisier than usual. Both shifts had been roused by the raid alarm, turned out for the excitement and stayed up for extra beer rations. At the turn into F-tier, a bunch of carousers clogged the aisle, beer mugs and pick sacks scattered about to trip up the unwary. Mostly older teens I knew by name but who still felt it their manly duty to hustle me and grab my butt. Like, wouldn’t I be hurt if they didn’t? Usually, I’d just give a friendly snarl and shove past. But I was still touchy from my Ace-scare down in Main.

“Glimmy, Glimmy, how do you shine?” one of them burped in my ear.

My limbs jerked into a clinch. “Hands to yourself, asshole!”

“Aww, it’s us. Be nice . . .”

An arm slid around my waist. “How ’bout a little drink?”

My hiss spiraled toward a screech.

“Leave her!”

My tier-mate Jake Reilly—early joiners often went by their own names in the den—stood at the corner, deploying his best what-the-fuck scowl. He wasn’t a big guy. Several of the boys easily outweighed him. But he had the advantage of age, rank, and a shabby sort of charisma. The crush broke up. Half of it monkeyed up the bunk racks to their beds, whooping and cackling. The remains put on beery grins and started up a shoving match that shuffled them away along the tier.

“And keep it down, will ya?” Jake spat after them. “People are trying to sleep!”

More raucous laughter. I slid off toward safer ground.

“Idiots!” He came back around the corner. “A little watered hooch, and they forsake all reason. You cool, Glim?”

Backed up against our own tier, I nodded. “I’m good.”

“No, you’re not. You’re shaking.”

“I’m fine.”

“Listen, I don’t think they’d actually . . .”

“I know that.” Which, of course, I didn’t. Not for sure. I scaled the racks to toss my grab bag onto my bunk, hang my pry-bar on its hook, and give myself a moment to recover.

“A laugh and a knee to the nuts would dampen their fun,” Jake called up to me.

Spunk taught us the move, to fight off a street attack. In practice, I was good. But when the threat felt real, the laughter deserted me and I froze every time. “It’s reflex. I can’t seem to . . .”

“I know. Give it time.”