“Plenty of chores to keep people busy.” Jake patted his neatly cornered blanket. “Sit down and eat. Better for your digestion.”

I perched at the far end of his bunk. “Thanks.”

He sent me his patented bedtime glance, forcing a giggle out of me. “That’s better. Good pickings?”

I let my shoulders sag. “Did you see my draw?”

His smile was alluring, no question—intimate, needy, a subtle hint at tragedy. Jenn said it made her want to take care of him. He claimed to be an actor, back when the theatres were open, and I could believe it. He had a quote for everything. When Rubio went on about people talking a certain way, I thought of Jake’s voice—modulated, faintly self-conscious, like he was always listening to himself. “Who’d you piss off this time?”

“Jeez, if I knew, I wouldn’t do it.”

“You’re not taking advantage of your natural assets.” He lifted his mirror shard off its hook and held it up for me. “When was the last time you took a look? Hair growing out all blond and curly, getting some curves back. ‘When unexpected beauty burns / Like sudden sunlight on the sea.’ Right? Time to use what you got.”

Beauty? Hardly. A compliment from Jake was always a means to an end. But I knew it was my means he was looking after. Like what Jenn had said about me always living in street clothes.

“Thanks, but . . .”

“I know. Still working things out, and you know I got your back. But you shouldn’t let it go too long, y’know?”

Was there something less playful in his advice this time, some hidden message? Was it time to start listening harder?

“I got nothing but time.” The medics guessed I wasn’t much over twenty.

“Maybe. If any of us do.” His shrug expressed vast regret for all of life’s injustices. “And, you know . . . fruit can spoil on the vine.” He grinned.

I grinned back. “I’ll keep it in mind. So where’re you headed?”

He accepted my left turn and got sly. “Classified.”

“C’mon. You oughta share the adventure. Wish I had your job. You get to stay clean and dry and all.”

“Depends on the weather.” Jake worked the day shift, on assignment to the Souk, the wildcat public market taken root in the bedrock high ground of Central Park, west of the farm plots. He’d trade the best of our pickings for necessities the den couldn’t supply—flour, drugs, electronics, depending on what was available. I coveted his unpatched jeans and canvas vest made entirely of zippered pockets, never mind his daytime work schedule.